


lunar phase

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Baskerville - Freeform, Biting, Blow Jobs, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Experimentation, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, For once Mycroft is not a god at fixing everything, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, Loss of Identity, M/M, Meddling Mycroft, POV Alternating, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD, Possessive Behaviour, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Rough Sex, Scientific Torture, Seizures, Self-Harm, Sentiment, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Territorial John Watson, Virus, Werewolf Lore, Werewolves, Whump, Wolf Instincts, aggressive sex, kind of, split into parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 40,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23604352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: John has a secret. Sherlock already knows. A case in the countryside brings everything out into the open.A/N: the name of this fic has been changed fromlunar cycletolunar phase
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 445
Kudos: 294





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _and I run from wolves  
>  breathing heavily  
> at my feet  
> and I run from wolves  
> tearing into me  
> without teeth_
> 
> **wolves without teeth - of monsters and men**
> 
>   
>    
> yeah, I caught the Were!John bug several years late

Sherlock has never been good with people. Since childhood, he has never ‘got on’ with others, no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes it is his fault, other times theirs. Whatever the reason, isolation has been Sherlock’s lot. While he adjusts, almost prefers being alone, the reality of it makes the search for a suitable flatmate near impossible. As luck would have it, Mike brings Sherlock a potential flatmate: John Watson. Sherlock is still shite with people, but, fortunately for him, John is not ‘people.’ 

Mike Stamford brings Sherlock a werewolf. 

Mike doesn’t _know_ that’s what he does, but the fact strikes Sherlock as soon as he lays eyes on John. The compact military man limps around the lab, and Sherlock reads more than just his service record in his tan lines, short haircut, and PTSD tremour. He keeps the extras to himself, both for Mike’s sake, and John’s, and partly for his own.

The bullet wound in John’s shoulder is the least of his worries and Sherlock is intrigued. Werewolves have become the stuff of legends, fading into rarity. Eyeing John across the worktop, Sherlock wonders at the hidden power beneath the unassuming button-up and out-of-style jeans. He resolves to find out. 

But, first, they’ll have to get rid of the limp. 

******

After John puts a bullet in an old, dying man’s shoulder, he sleeps soundly in the upstairs bedroom. Seated at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock listens for nightmares. For tossing, turning chaos. There is nothing, and John wakes refreshed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in almost every sense of the word. 

Sherlock spends that night pulling old articles and scanning folklore. Reads about the tribal wolf packs in the Afghanistan wilds, and the soldiers sometimes found torn apart in the mountains. There has not been a confirmed case of lycanthropy since the early 80s. Try as he might, Sherlock cannot track down concrete information on what happened to the last werewolf. 

Reading between the lines paints a grim picture. 

Listening to John stir one floor above, feet padding in a hushed gait down the stairs, Sherlock resolves to make sure John does not meet the same fate. He still has not let on that he knows John’s secret. Hesitation is bitter in his mouth, watching John putter around the flat, making tea and retrieving the newspaper. Fingers laced beneath his chin, Sherlock narrows his eyes. 

******

Twice a month, John’s mood shifts. He becomes listless, lethargic. Loathe to move from a languid slump in his chair. Sherlock cannot rouse him, not even with harsh words or the promise of a case. John barely raises his head for a 10 and refuses to open his eyes at a six. Anything below that is a lost cause, not even worth the effort. 

After the low-energy passes, John is almost his old self. After a few months, Sherlock completes a chart, tracking the mood swings. For two days following his lethargy, John is perfectly ordinary. Not a hair out of place. As the days drag closer to the full moon, John becomes restless. His temper grows shorter, movements jerky, his face tense with permanent lines of stress. Sometimes, Sherlock can coax him into a case involving a chase, and John is panting and happy when they arrive at Baker Street. More often, his mood is too black, and he slips away in the night, returning late the next day looking exhausted, dark shadows etched beneath his eyes. Upon his return, John drops onto the nearest piece of furniture and sleeps for twelve hours. Sherlock has tried waking him a few times, succeeded once, and never tried again. 

John’s nails left scars on his shoulder, but John seemed to forget upon waking. Sherlock does not remind him. 

Sherlock plots out the cycle. On the full moon, John’s unpleasant, restive mood pinnacles in what he can only assume is a transformation of some kind. On the new moon, John becomes listless and exhausted. Studying his research, combing through the results, Sherlock wonders how best to put such information to use.

Listening to John humming in the shower through the closed bathroom door connected to his bedroom, Sherlock feels a surge of some intense, protective emotion. It makes him scowl, lips pulling to the side. Sentiment? Really? Unacceptable. Looking over the chart, and his collected data, Sherlock admits it paints a damning picture of concern and tries to shake it off. 

He is a scientist, nothing more. This is scientific curiousity, plain and simple. And John is a good man. A steady man. A man worth looking out for. 

More sentiment? Sherlock wants to gag. 

The water shuts off in the next room, and Sherlock hurries to cover the chart with his poster of the periodic table. 

John cannot know. 

******

John’s next ‘wolf cycle’, as Sherlock has taken to calling it, begins at an inconvenient time. A case takes them abroad. What is meant to be a day trip turns into more than two weeks of staying at inns, combing through tight, narrow alleys in tiny villages, and a frustrating lack of both mobile signal and effective leads.

Caught up in the case, Sherlock nearly misses it. John is a constant presence at his side, dogging his heels, chasing Sherlock’s spontaneous ideas through fields of heather and weeping willow trees. 

Come Friday morning, John won’t answer the door of their adjoined rooms. The hotel is small, the building, old, and the door gives way under one shove of Sherlock’s shoulder against the wood. He finds John sprawled across the bed, face-down, and his heart nearly stops. 

“John?” There is no answer, and Sherlock’s mouth is desert-dry. “John!” 

A touch on the shoulder elicits no response. Shoving and grabbing produce a low mumble, and Sherlock finally pushes John onto his side. The man rolls, arms heavy, body listless. His face is flushed in places, pale in others. When he blinks slow, glazed eyes, Sherlock’s brain stops running in different directions and grinds to a stop with realization. 

New moon. Today is a new moon, and John’s body is heavy and torpid, melting into the mattress. Sherlock’s teeth sink into his lip. Strokes hair from John’s face and gives him an out.

“Sick?”

John nods. Sherlock’s fingers card through his short hair, a little longer than when they first met, but still orderly, cropped into neat precision. Today, it is a ruffled mess, damp with sweat. The strands cling to Sherlock’s skin, nails working through the tangles to scratch lightly at John’s scalp. Normally, Sherlock would never allow himself such a luxury—such _sentiment_ —but John is even more listless than usual, and he doesn’t seem to mind, eyes sliding shut under Sherlock’s gentle attentions. 

“Rest.” 

John nods again, and Sherlock hesitates. Permits himself to pass a thumb along the lax lines bracketing John’s mouth before he pushes away to stand. Looking down at John, tapping a finger against his thigh, Sherlock reconsiders his plan of attack for the day. He had hoped to question a man who has been spotted lingering in the next town over. A dangerous man, a man of shadows and fickle morals. Never one to hesitate in the face of danger, Sherlock itches to follow through with his original plan for the day.

Studying John, he finds himself reluctant. Remembers reading between the lines of the last werewolf’s life, and resolving to keep the same from happening to John. 

Sherlock changes his plans. Speaks to locals and builds a more comprehensive outline of the case from their admissions and offerings. Someone has been murdering villagers. Tearing apart sheep and pets. Someone? Some _thing?_ Sherlock cannot figure it out.

When he brings John lunch, he finds him sleeping on his opposite side, arms and legs straight out in front of him, breathing in slow, steady pants. His temperature is high, and Sherlock frowns. Hand on John’s forehead, he feels the burn of his skin. The symptom is new, and John doesn’t stir when Sherlock slides his hand lower, digging carefully under his neck to find a pulse. It is fluttery and uneven, but very much there, to his relief. 

There is new data here, and Sherlock is frustrated that the case is taking his focus away from something he should be adding to his charts. Only later will Sherlock realize he wasn’t frustrated with John’s condition taking time away from the case, and the thought will make him grit his teeth. Stare into the fire, knockback two fingers of whiskey, and curse sentiment. 

John recovers, and the case drags onward. Sherlock finds his focus consumed once more by the task at hand. Everything else falls away, perception narrowing to a tunnel, omitting all else. Thanks to his narrow-mindedness, Sherlock drags both of them out into the deep countryside, following a tip that, twelve hours later, wading through hip-deep grass and swampland, is an obvious wild goose chase. 

When they find themselves lost, Sherlock is furious. He expects the same response from John, but he only appears nervous. Strangely so. Still caught in his thoughts, trying desperately to slot together patchwork information while striving to find a way back to civilization, Sherlock misses it.

John has been too quiet. He was snappy for a few hours until Sherlock shouted him to silence. His pale, angry face has been a constant, darkening facade, one Sherlock learns to tune out. 

He misses it. Calls for a stop after wandering aimless paths around a seemingly endless bog. They curl up beneath a tree, finding the only dry, solid ground in the area to attempt sleep. Sherlock’s mind is racing, and John won’t stop twitching at his side, their backs pressed together for warmth. Sherlock snaps at him one too many times.

“Christ, John—can’t you bloody well _sit still?”_

John’s eyes flash in the dark. His body goes stiff and tense, and he thumps hard onto his side, curls into a tight ball, growling deep in his chest. The noise is a warning, a precursor of what is to come, and Sherlock misses it.

When he finally drops into a restless but deep sleep, a sound wakes him near midnight. Sherlock bolts upright, heart beating staccato thunder in his chest. There is a full moon overhead, illuminating the marshy landscape in stark silver vibrance, and Sherlock hears the sound again. 

A howl. Low and long and ragged. His skin twitches with a shiver, bone-deep, and he realizes that he is cold.

John is gone, and there is a wolf on the moors.


	2. Chapter 2

Locking his arms around his knees, folding them against his chest, Sherlock waits. Listens to the drawn-out cadence of John’s lunar melody, his singular serenade to the full, bright moon above. There is a deep-set note of sorrow to the sound. A heart-wrenching tale of displaced, lonely isolation. Like Sherlock, John is a lone wolf, in every sense of the word. 

Sherlock leans his head back against the tree, looking out over the marshy landscape. His eyelids droop, lashes hazing everything with spidery definition. His chin sinks to his chest, arms loosening, head lolling to the side. Silence hangs in the air, the last howling notes fading into the night, and Sherlock dozes. 

******

When he wakes again, there is sleep in his eyes, a crick in his neck, and the padded noise of heavy steps on the soft, muddy ground.

Sitting upright, Sherlock’s breath catches. Chokes in his throat, making him swallow hard around the urge to cough. Staring into the night, cloud cover blocking the moonlight and leaving him in a thick, semi-darkness, Sherlock sees a flicker ahead. Something faint and reflective in the gloom.

His nervous tone hums through the heavy air, drawing goosebumps over his own skin. “John?” Silence, nothing but the faint, fading echoes of his own voice. The clouds part, moonlight painting his surroundings in relief once more. Sherlock’s mouth goes dry.

He’s no longer alone. A few feet away, large, sharp-angled head swinging low, is something four-legged. A creature of dark, matted fur and cruel teeth, leaking drool into the mud compressed beneath its flexing, clawed paws. 

If this is John, Sherlock has no hope of survival. 

“John?” He calls out the name with uncertainty. This creature—a literal beast—holds nothing familiar in its predatory face. The eyes, coal-black and shark-like, fasten on his, and Sherlock can’t bring himself to believe this is the man he has shared a flat, a kitchen table, and a life with.

This is not John. If it originated from John, it no longer is him, and Sherlock finds himself slinking backward. Feeling at the bark of the tree for a handhold, a rough gnarl in the trunk, anything.

The beast tenses and he goes still. Living with John, knowing what he is, has been a lesson in body language for Sherlock. Never a strength with him among people, he has learned the demure, submissive body language of something much wilder. 

Sherlock ducks his head and drops his gaze, breaking eye contact. His hands, still searching for escape on the tree, tremble. 

The stiff guard hairs on the back of the wolf rise to attention. Slipping into a low crouch, the creature slinks forward, each step a slow, balanced prowl. Sherlock averts his eyes, fingers trailing over rough bark. He takes a chance, looking up, spotting a branch just out of reach. Pulling in a breath, heart thundering in his chest, Sherlock shoots a look at the circling wolf. 

Their eyes meet, hackles rise, and Sherlock knows he is out of time. It is now or never, and he chooses now. Bending his knees, he jumps, reaching for the branch. His hands stretch, fingers brushing and failing to catch hold.

When he tumbles to the ground, the wolf leaps. Sherlock twists, rolling to avoid snapping teeth. The wolf is heavy, its weight striking him like a battering ram. Its dark, foul-smelling flank hammers into Sherlock’s side, throwing him into the mud and onto his knees. 

The wolf skitters away, kicking up dirt clods and marsh grass, and Sherlock knows it will not miss a second time. Chest aching, lungs empty of air, Sherlock crawls, clawing at the earth with a wheeze rattling deep in his throat. 

He never planned to die on his hands and knees, but here he is. At least he was bested by a beast, rather than a man. There is a small modicum of comfort in the thought, and Sherlock almost laughs. Would have, if he could catch a breath. His side aches with a deep throb, likely a broken rib, and Sherlock knows he won’t have to worry about it for long.

There are heavy, wet noises behind him, the wolf circling back. It will not miss this time. 

Sherlock’s arms overstretch, hand coming down on something sharp in the mud. He collapses. Stomach-down in the muck, ribs aching, still gasping for air, the world’s only consulting detective listens to the wolf’s approach. The sounds it makes are of panting, predatory satisfaction. If Sherlock were to look up and back, he knows he would see saliva dripping from bared fangs. Moonlight caught in sharp eyes. His imagination is good enough, and he lets his face rest in the mire. 

God, he hopes it’s not John. 

Claws dig into the earth, ripping up wet grass and dirt, and the wolf lowers itself. Prepares to surge forward. 

A low, rumbling growl thrums in the air. At first, Sherlock thinks it’s the beast behind him. Wonders why it has not fallen upon him yet, rending flesh and muscle away from bone with yellowed teeth. 

The sound rises, drops, constant. It builds into a crescendo, resonating in his bones until Sherlock realizes it is not coming from behind. Not emerging from the beast. Raising his head, he looks into a tapered snout. Fangs inches from his face. Another wolf, sandy-haired and heavy-set in the shoulders, powerful legs digging claws into the ground with restless, pawing movements. The growling ceases, the new wolf cocking a large, triangular head to the side. Sherlock meets its eyes, finally sucking a breath in through his clenched teeth.

The eyes are dark blue and achingly familiar.

“John?”

The wolf huffs, the force of the exhale blowing Sherlock’s hair back. Lifting a hand, fingers twitching, Sherlock reaches out. The low, constant rumble returns, making him snatch it back. John’s legs go stiff, then bend, bringing him to a crouch. Eyes widening, Sherlock cringes back, shock making him slip in the mud.

“John—no!” 

John lunges and a scream catches in Sherlock’s throat, throttled before it can emerge. The huge, sandy wolf continues past him. Leaps over his prone body, Sherlock’s head twisting fast enough for his neck to protest.

John collides with the other wolf, taking the dark beast out of the air, caught mid-leap. They tumble into the mud, snapping, snarling. John lunges for a throat hidden beneath thick, matted fur, teeth flashing in the moonlight. The beast goes left, John missing by inches. While the beast circles around, John’s front paws skid in the mud, carrying him into a graceless heap in the reeds. 

The black wolf is upon him immediately. Teeth sink into and worry at one of John’s hind legs, and Sherlock is on his feet, ignoring the pain screaming through his ribs as John’s pained shriek rips the air. 

“John!” Wrapping an arm around his chest, he rushes forward. Fights back the absolute, instinctual terror of approaching a monster and aims a hard kick into the black wolf’s flank. 

Falling away, the beast whirls, blood spraying from its muzzle. The front fangs, curved and cruel, are slicked with red, and Sherlock stumbles back. Shifts around and puts himself between the creature and John, still laying in the mud with his legs splayed, panting in sharp, high bursts. The sound communicates pain, faint whimpers easing under the harsh breathing. 

Sherlock holds his ground. Plants his feet, readying for tearing teeth. Earlier, he resigned himself to being bested by a beast. Now, he prepares to die beside the only person to ever stick by him. 

It is a worthy death, one Sherlock accepts with no hint of trepidation. 

The wolf stalks forward, ears laid back. Closing his eyes, Sherlock waits for the slash of pain. Something butts against his legs, hot and panting, making him stumble back, grasping hands finding hold in thick fur. 

John pushes past, shoving Sherlock back with the sway of his flank. Crowds him toward the tree until his spine meets bark. Dropping into a crouch, John stands between him and the other wolf. His back leg is bleeding, the light fur turning thick and dark with blood, and a low, thundering growl rumbles in his tensed body. Rises into a snarl when the beast breaks into a run. 

John holds his ground. His tail stands at attention, twitches to the side, then drops into a stiff line with his body as John rears up to meet the attacking animal. The force pushes him onto hind legs, the injured limb shaking, nearly giving out but holding. The wolves lunge and claw at one another, teeth clicking, catching in fur, tearing at flesh and drawing blood. 

A yelp splits the air, impossible to differentiate the source. The wolves tangle, clash. Go down in a heap of kicking legs and swaying tails. When they rise, the clouds obscure the moon again, leaving Sherlock’s eyes blind and useless. 

The battling beasts tumble into the tall marsh grass, and Sherlock screams John’s name. A loud, high-pitched cry answers, followed by blind thrashing, an immense splash, then silence. 

Moonlight returns and Sherlock is alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter, y'all!


	3. Chapter 3

Crouched against the tree, trying to slow his breathing, Sherlock listens. Strains his ears, desperate for anything. Any sound. Anything that could tell him John is alive. A whine draws him up and forward, slipping in muck and grime, footing loose on the soggy ground. 

“John?” The name hisses out. Filters through the humid air without reply. “John? John!” Nothing, then—

A whimper. 

Sherlock surges forward, pushing through tall reeds. He sinks knee-deep into marsh water. Doesn’t register the cold biting at his skin, slogging through the swamp, following the pitiful sounds leading him on. 

He comes upon the body of the black wolf. Its sides heave in desperate pants. Sprawled, tongue lolling out of its open mouth, dark eyes roll to meet Sherlock’s. Intelligence dances in their depths, sputters before fading away. The wolf’s body jerks, legs kicking, and falls still. A strange vibration crawls over the fur, as if with seizure.

In front of Sherlock’s wide, stunned eyes, the wolf fades into a man with long, tangled black hair. There are teeth marks on his body, throat oozing blood from a grisly tear. 

Another whine forces Sherlock’s head up, the moonlight outlining a shivering form. Splashing forward, wading through deeper waters, Sherlock falls to his knees beside the sandy wolf. Half-submerged in the muck and mire, John pants, mud darkening his fur, mixing with the blood on his side and back. 

“John.” Sherlock fixes his fingers in the thick ruff around the wolf’s neck, throwing caution to the wind. “John, I’m here.” 

The sandy wolf lifts its head. One eye slips open, and Sherlock wonders how he ever thought the black wolf might be John. The gaze fixed on him is familiar, stunningly so. The shape may be that of a wolf, but that look is undeniably John. 

John lets out a low, thready whimper, drawing Sherlock from his thoughts. 

“Get up.” John doesn’t move, sinking deeper into the swampy water. Sherlock’s mouth tightens. “Get _up_ , John! You’re too heavy for me to carry. So. Get. Up!” Panic edges his tone, and John must hear it because he struggles to his feet with a rumbling groan. Water sluices off his matted fur; when he steps forward, Sherlock sees his left hind leg is dark with blood, running in rivulets with the water. 

“Come on.” Hands gripped in fur, Sherlock stumbles toward the shore. John leans heavily against his hip, growling with every limping step. Weaving, clumsy, they make it to the tree. Sherlock staggers forward, going down to his knees to slump against the trunk with John huffing, tipping onto his side against the detective’s outstretched legs. Eyes sinking shut, Sherlock leans his head on rough bark, sucking air into his lungs that tastes like rotting vegetation and adrenaline. In the marsh lies a dead man, naked and savaged by predatory teeth, bled out into the swamp. 

John’s head, heavy and furred, lands across his legs. Looking down, Sherlock finds his eyes glazed and half-open. The twitching black nose feels dry, tongue limp at the edge of open jaws. Slow tremours work through John’s massive frame, punctuated by soft, rattling whines. Lost for words, out of his element by leaps and bounds, Sherlock threads his fingers into thick, wet fur. Cards through tangles and burrs, scratching through to the undercoat. John rumbles in his throat, the sound reverberating through his heavy chest and into Sherlock’s body. 

It sounds like gratitude. Exhausted, but real.

Bending to press his face into the coarse ruff ringing John’s neck, Sherlock inhales. Breathes in the damp, wet smell of water-logged fur, whispering, “Thank you.” 

John huffs, shifts to his side, kicking out his powerful legs in a groaning stretch. His snout nudges against Sherlock’s hand, tongue lapping mud from skin, and his eyes slide shut. Sherlock tries to keep watch, monitoring John’s uneven breathing, but the adrenaline creeps out of his body, dissipating in the cold air. 

He sleeps.

******

In the morning, sunlight pulls Sherlock back to wakefulness, blinding him when his eyes flutter open. His hands rest on hot-and-cold, goosebump-covered skin, a body wracked with trembling fever. 

In the place of the immense wolf is John, flushed and nude, with bruises marring his flesh. There is blood on his back and leg, but the wounds are closed and puckered, the marks of teeth faded to dark puncture marks. Shrugging out of his coat, Sherlock covers the man asleep on his legs to preserve a modicum of his modesty. John does not stir but nuzzles beneath the heavy wool, oblivious to the sodden quality of the material. Sherlock combs his fingers through mud-darkened hair. Soothes John’s restless, feverish mumblings with his voice and hands, and keeps watch. Gradually, with caution, he walks his fingertips under the coat, feeling over the leg marked by teeth. 

Last night, the fur had run dark with blood. Now, the wounds are shallow, weeping platelets and forming a scab. Accelerated healing? Intrigued, Sherlock traces the marks with his index finger. A shiver works its way over John’s skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. The slow sound of his breathing changes, turning rough and uneven. Raising his head, Sherlock looks at John’s face, finds his eyes wide open, fixed on his.

There is no recognition in the blue depths, and Sherlock goes still as John’s body stiffens. Swallowing hard, mouth dry, Sherlock lifts his hands away from John’s leg, trying not to notice how badly his arms are shaking.

John makes a noise like a growl, low in his throat. It sounds inhuman, like a warning, making Sherlock freeze. With difficulty, he forces his eyes away. Staring at the ground, heart beating a wild rhythm against his aching ribs, Sherlock bites into his bottom lip, trying not to breathe too loudly. Prays John won’t hear his racing pulse and take it to mean weakness. 

Sherlock has never been more terrified. Even the black beast slinking toward him in the dark was less horrific than this, because this is John, and John does not seem to know him. 

John lifts his head, and Sherlock flinches without meaning to. His breath catches in his throat, and he can’t help the reflexive wrap of his arms around his torso. Jolting up, John jerks back from Sherlock. Falls onto his side, shifting onto hands and knees in a tense crouch. 

Left with a lap of sodden Belstaff, Sherlock blinks. Their eyes lock, and John’s head swings low. His lips curl back, teeth bared, low, snarling growl humming deep in his throat. Sherlock drops his head again, averting his stare. Forces himself to show his neck, submissive and breathing slow. 

“John.” He clears his throat, a careful, choked sound. “It’s me. It’s Sherlock. I won’t hurt you.”

Hands and feet making wet sounds as they sink into the muck, John approaches with a dazed face and twitching limbs. When Sherlock dares to look up, John makes a weird, strangled noise, like a whine. 

Sherlock bares his neck again and John tilts into him with a groan, face pressing to the offered skin. His hands land on Sherlock’s chest, pushing him hard against the tree. Sherlock’s breath catches, the racing beat of his heart a loud thunder in his ears. His hands shake, and he can’t stop the thought from creeping into his head, stark in its singular clarity: 

_Sentiment._

John makes soft, tickling _whuff_ noises against his neck, inhaling and breathing deep. His nails scrape at Sherlock’s skin, the sharp scratches left behind making him wince. Something wet and hot and rough laps at his throat and Sherlock holds himself still, frozen save for the faint tremours easing over his flesh. All at once, John sags. The smell of adrenaline fades, leaving him limp against Sherlock’s chest. 

Counting out his breaths, forcing himself to inhale and exhale in a slow, precise rhythm, Sherlock refuses to hyperventilate. A headrush leaves him dizzy and weak in the wake of fading adrenaline, his hands fluttering to rest light on John’s rising and falling back.


	4. Chapter 4

With the sun climbing higher into the sky, reaching its zenith, a search party finds them at last. Sherlock feels hot and dried out, hair heavy with flaking mud, sweat, and exhaustion. His lips, cracked by the overhead beat of the sun, taste of blood under his parched tongue. John has not stirred in several hours, curled up against Sherlock’s chest, breathing deep and slow. His body feels hot, a weighty figure with limbs turned loose from fatigue. The pressure is a sharp pain against his aching ribs, but Sherlock refuses to move. Even when the sun is overhead, reddening the skin of his face, Sherlock shifts his coat to cover John’s bare flesh. 

Thinking back to John’s 12-hour naps after every full moon, Sherlock wonders how they will make it out of the moors if John is too exhausted to open his eyes.

When the search party comes upon them, his heart twists with a mixture of relief and trepidation. The local police chief leads the group, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he slogs through marshland toward their little island. At his side is the owner of the small hotel where they stayed before wandering into the countryside to lose themselves among brambles and swamp mud. His eyes, when they alight upon the two men under the tree, go bright with relief before narrowing with confusion.

Holding his gaze, Sherlock stares him down until any questions seem to die on the man’s lips. He does the same with the police officer, and the four villagers standing behind. One by one, each of them drops their eyes, and Sherlock turns his attention to the man slumbering against his chest, half-sprawled over his hip and legs. 

“John.” Hesitant, Sherlock touches his fingers to John’s chin, angling his face up toward his. “John?” John’s closed lids twitch, eyes roving beneath. His mouth opens, breathing a hot gust of air against Sherlock’s neck, but he does not stir beyond that. 

The officer steps forward. “Mister Holmes—” His words are cut short by Sherlock’s raised hand and furious eyes. The policeman shares a dubious look with the hotel owner but subsides. They watch the interaction with rapt expressions, and Sherlock feels like the wolf himself, aching to rip their throats out. 

John breathes against his skin again, a low groan issuing from parted lips. The sound tugs at something inside Sherlock’s chest, and he tells himself it is just the pain of his injured rib. It’s not, and he knows that but denies it a little longer. _Sentiment_ , his brain whispers, and the detective shoves the thought away. Now is not the time, and it is definitely not the place. Rubbing John’s back through the still-damp coat, Sherlock tries again. “John. Wake up, John.” 

John groans again, hands curling, nails itching at Sherlock’s chest again. When his eyes open, it is to slow half-mast, the blue hue dark with fatigue. A bewildered, blearily confused expression shifts over his face.

“Mister Holmes.” The voice makes John jerk and then stiffen. His eyes go wide, teeth showing when his lips draw back from the tensing of his jaw. Swallowing back his own fury, Sherlock shoots the man a deadly look before focusing on John once more.

“John.” His voice is soft, forced full of comfort he does not feel confident extending. “You’re safe.” The blue eyes flick back to his face. Tilting forward, Sherlock drops his forehead against John’s. At the contact, John’s eyes slide half-shut again, face smoothing of aggression. Giving him a moment, Sherlock breathes in a deep breath. Inhales the smell of swamp, rotting greenery, and John, a mixture of sweat, exhaustion, and familiarity. 

When John finally gets to his feet, Sherlock keeps a steady hand on his back. Wraps his coat closed around John’s bare figure and helps him walk on shaking legs. John still has not spoken, his face dazed. The small rescue party shoots uneasy looks his way when they realize he is naked and bruised under the Belstaff, prompting Sherlock to reel him in close to his side with an arm around his shoulders. Uncharacteristically, John allows the sheltering, stumbling along at Sherlock’s side as they pick their way through slick mud and uncertain footing.

They reach the spot where Sherlock had seen the dead man with long black hair the night before, felled by John’s ripping teeth under the full moon. The body is gone, leaving behind a faint reddish hue in the reeds. Squinting, Sherlock’s eye catches on something dark. Under the guise of tying his shoe, John swaying at his side, Sherlock picks a tuft of dark, matted fur out of the grass. Straightening, he tucks it into a pocket, drawing John close again, helping him pick through the more solid patches of ground. 

******

By the time the group reaches the road, and the vehicles parked on the shoulder, John has begun to flag, weaving dangerously with his weariness. The officer unlocks a patrol car and they slip into the backseat, Sherlock helping John duck his head. Blue eyes faded and glassy, John slumps against the seat, lids dropping. Watching him, Sherlock frowns before closing the door and moving to the other side to slip in beside him. 

The officer settles in the driver’s seat, shoots them a look in the rear-view mirror, and starts the car without comment. The vehicle pulls off the shoulder with gravel crunching beneath the wheels, and John starts. Looks around with wild eyes and a wary expression on his dirty face. His gaze flicks to Sherlock, shoulders going loose in a slump, and he tilts back into the seat. Staring straight ahead, Sherlock’s hands fidget in his lap. John glances at him again, pulling the Belstaff tighter around his body. He clears his throat and doesn’t speak, but his face looks less dazed, far from vacant. A faint flush rises on John’s cheeks, tension filling the limited space of the patrol car’s backseat.

The silence is immense, and Sherlock finds he needs to break it. Shatter it into pieces and disrupt the uneasy quiet. 

“Are you okay?”

John jerks at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. His eyes skitter to the driver’s seat, where the officer is staring at the road ahead, his expression resolute. Glancing briefly at Sherlock, John turns to stare out the window on his side of the car. 

“Yeah.” The reply is low, voice rough. John coughs, a harsh sound, and winces. His hands tense and twitch in his lap. Sherlock aches to reach out and touch. He does, and John’s head whips around, not with aggression this time, but with shock. The twin spots of colour high on his cheeks deepen, red creeping up his neck. Careful not to meet his eye, Sherlock squeezes one of the restless hands before releasing, placing his own hand back on his knee. 

******

After a trip to the local clinic, where they are both looked after, cleaned up, and Sherlock dodges answering questions with anything specific, he and John are released back to their hotel, only once Sherlock promises the police officer they will be in to give their statements the next day. On his way out, Sherlock is chastised, told he is lucky to have no more than a few scratches and a bruised rib after a night spent out on the moors. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, the bandages wrapped across his chest itching beneath his shirt, Sherlock stares at the closed door across the room. The shock has finally sunk in, and he feels jittery. Unsettled in his body, hands tugging and plucking at the bedding, scratching at loose threads.

John is on the other side of that door. Sherlock narrows his eyes. As if his intense focus wills it into being, a knock sounds against the panel, bringing Sherlock to his feet fast enough to suck the air from his lungs from the pain in his side. Hissing in a breath, he moves across the carpet, thick fibres hushing his bare footsteps into whispers. 

The opened door reveals John. His face is still darkened with bruises, but they seem lighter. Dark shadows etched beneath his eyes emphasize the sallow quality of his skin. “Hey.” John sounds nervous and Sherlock squints at him. Doesn’t move, trying to read the expression on John’s face beneath the bruises. John shifts, clearing his throat. “Can...ah, can I come in?”

Nodding, Sherlock steps aside to let him enter. He does, padding across the carpet to stand in the middle of the room. John looks tired and depleted, eyes hollow when he turns to Sherlock, after casting a wistful, lingering glance at the bed. Sherlock waves toward the mattress. “Please, sit.” John hesitates, shoots him a narrow-eyed look, and drops onto the edge. His shoulders slump for a moment, a sigh leaving his lips before his back goes straight and rigid. The expression on his face is tense, the sight of it making Sherlock’s breathing stutter to a halt in his throat. 

“We need to talk.” John looks at his hands, frowning. Dragging his eyes back to Sherlock, his mouth is a thin, hard line. Sherlock nods, glances around the room and the lack of furniture and leans against the wall across from the bed. Silence stretches out, heavy in the space between them. John’s hands flex, curl, and dig into fists on his knees. His eyes flick over Sherlock’s face. Meeting his stare, Sherlock swallows, tucking his own hands behind his back, clasped together.

John breaks the quiet. “How long have you known?” Sherlock’s eyes slide away, a lie on the tip of his tongue. A soft noise rumbles in John’s chest, a borderline growl, and Sherlock sighs.

“The first day.” Head tilted, he watches John from the corner of his eyes. “Since Bart’s.” 

A vibration ripples over John’s skin. His eyes go wide, and a low, surprised huff escapes his lips. “You’ve known since—why did you ask me to be your flatmate, then? If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?”

Sherlock fixes him with a sharp look. “And risk outing you in front of Mike?” 

Another soft growl. “You _know_ what I meant, Sherlock.” Studying the carpet at his feet, Sherlock presses his lips into a hard, tight line. Sitting on the bed, John sighs. “Sherlock.” The name emerges in a careful tone. “If you knew, why would you ask me to be your flatmate? Why would you take a risk like that?” When no reply is forthcoming, John barks, “Answer me, Sherlock!” 

“Because I didn’t care,” Sherlock mumbles. John twitches, taken aback. His brows rise before dropping low over his narrowing eyes, prompting Sherlock to clarify. “I don’t mean it like that. Obviously, I was fascinated. But I didn’t…” Frowning, Sherlock’s hands flex uselessly, trembling at his sides. “I didn’t see it as a risk.” His voice is soft and reluctant. John’s expression darkens.

“I could have killed you, Sherlock.” The words are bitter, spat from curled lips. “You have no idea the danger you put yourself in. I can’t believe you would—”

“If you’re so dangerous, why would you accept?” Sherlock’s quiet interruption stops John in mid-shout, his mouth forming an uncertain ‘o’ before slamming shut with a click of teeth. Emboldened, Sherlock pushes off from the wall, taking several steps closer, stopping a foot away from the bed and John’s planted feet. “If you are such a risk to me, then why would you come to see the flat?” John stares up at him, hands curling and unfurling, and Sherlock surges onward. “Why would you come to London, where there are so many people, so much potential for harm? Tell me, John. If you’re that dangerous, then why?”

John tears his eyes away, glaring at the floor. His jaw works, muscles flexing in his neck, the tendons standing out under the skin. Still, he does not speak. Sherlock feels a weird, bitter anger rise in his throat. He tries and fails to swallow it down. 

“Why, John?” Nothing but silence meets his demand, and Sherlock’s voice rises to a shout. “Tell me _why!”_

In a sudden rush of movement, John is on his feet. “Because I didn’t have a choice!” The action brings them toe-to-toe, and Sherlock can feel the feverish heat rippling off of John’s skin, through his thin t-shirt and loose cotton pants. Exhaling in surprise, Sherlock watches John breathe the air escaping his own lungs. John’s eyes are wide, pupils contracting to points in his flushed face. His trembling hands spasm, knuckles knocking against Sherlock’s. 

Without thinking, Sherlock stretches out his fingers, finding John’s and grabbing, holding on with a vice-grip. John’s breathing catches with a loud clicking sound in his throat, making his words emerge tight, choked. “I didn’t want to be alone.” 

The words land between them. They are heavy, almost tangible on Sherlock’s skin. He tries to swallow his response, but John’s hands shake in his, fingers trembling between his knuckles, and he is speaking before he can stop himself. “Neither did I.”


	5. Chapter 5

They both go still. John’s breathing is a rough cadence, huffing against Sherlock’s neck and lower jaw, out of sync with his own. Their clasped hands, tensed tight with matching white knuckles, connect two quivering bodies. John’s gaze is locked on his face and Sherlock cannot look away from the hypnotic blue.

“You’re not afraid of me?” John sounds uncertain, his voice small. 

Terrified. 

Sherlock replies in a whisper, rough and genuine for one of the few times in his life. “I was.” John’s face tenses and Sherlock squeezes their joined hands. “I’m not anymore.” 

The air rushes out of John’s lungs like water from a broken dam. His legs shake, fold, and dump him back down to the edge of the mattress. Releasing his hands, Sherlock hesitates, teeth thinking into his bottom lip in thought before taking a seat beside him. 

“Why?” John’s question is soft, edged with tired, strained anxiety. “What changed?”

Looking down at his hands, curved over the bend of his knees, Sherlock’s brow furrows. “I wasn’t scared, knowing what you—that you could change into...that you’re a werewolf.” His frown deepens, eyes flicking to John. “Is that—I don’t know what the right term is.”

John shrugs. “I’m not exactly an expert. I just turn into one.” He spreads his hands, at a loss. “Werewolf works, I guess.” Allowing a soft snort, he almost laughs. “God, this is a conversation I never thought I’d be having.”

Turning slightly, Sherlock studies his face. “Did you think I would never figure it out?” 

John shrugs again. “Guess I never thought about it much. I figured…” his lips quirk in a humourless sneer. “I guess I thought if you did find out, there wouldn’t exactly be a conversation.”

Sherlock’s frown clears, and he curls his hands together. “You thought I’d send you away.” It’s not a question. John’s head tilts, and he looks Sherlock in the face. 

“I assumed you’d kill me.” 

The words land between them. Weigh heavy in the air, pressing the breath from Sherlock’s lungs. “You thought…” Sherlock pauses, takes his time. Inhales, stretching out his tense fingers, the knuckles cracking quietly. “Why would you think that?”

John’s eyes search his face. The tense lines around his mouth deepen, and his expression does something strained and complex. “You said you were scared.” 

Looking into John’s eyes, Sherlock feels a tight, heavy lump form in his throat. It makes breathing difficult, swallowing even more so, and all he can hear inside his head is  _ sentiment, sentiment, sentiment. _ It sounds worryingly close to an alarm, blaring for evacuation, escape, ejection from the danger site. Sherlock pushes it down, drowns it out with his own voice. “I was scared tonight. Earlier. That was the first time.” He hesitates, reaching out to touch two fingers to the back of John’s tight hands. “The  _ last _ time.” 

With a twitch, John moves his hands away. Keeping his face neutral, Sherlock folds his fingers back over his knees, sitting straight-backed and stiff. John appears to struggle with himself for a moment. His mouth folds into a tight, thin line, a quick tremour crawling over his skin, working through his shoulders and down his arms. When no words are forthcoming, Sherlock fills the silence, watching John’s shaking from the corner of his eyes.

“I’ve plotted out a chart of how your condition impacts you physically.” John’s chin jerks up at the word ‘condition’ but doesn’t interrupt, and Sherlock continues. “The new moon makes you sleepy. Lethargic and slow. Hard to rouse.” His eyes flick briefly to John, waiting for the small nod of agreement before going on. “For two days following, you appear balanced once more. After those two days, your mood shifts again. You become irritable, snappy, and short-tempered. All this tension seems to preclude what I assume is a change.” No nod this time but Sherlock feels confident enough to continue outlining his theory. “You usually disappear for the night, or, on one occassion, lock yourself in your room. When you return, you are deeply fatigued. Your return is followed by an extensive, prolonged period of sleep. My assumption is to replenish a large amount of energy required for a change.” Hesitating, Sherlock glances at John, letting the words fade between them. 

Staring straight ahead, John nods, inclining his head once in stiff acknowledgment. A minute ticks by, drawing out the silence until Sherlock breaks it again.

“Because of this case, I lost track of your cycle.” John winces but remains quiet. “Once the effects of the new moon hit, I nearly missed them.” Pausing, he squints at the rigid man beside him. “Do you remember?”

John’s eyes drop to his hands. “Kind of.” His brow furrows. “You were in the room. I don’t quite...remember. But there was a scent.” His eyes flick to Sherlock. “Yours.” 

Brows rising in brief surprise, Sherlock wets his dry lips with a quick flick of his tongue. “Yes. I came into your room after you didn’t answer my knock. You were fevered and disoriented.” His eyes search John’s face. “You have never displayed such symptoms at Baker Street.” He doesn't mention stroking his fingers through John’s hair. John doesn’t mention it, the moment passing between them. While a part of Sherlock feels relief, summarizing that John must not remember, a smaller part feels bitterly disappointed. It sounds suspiciously like the same part that breathes sentiment, and he waves it away. Focusing back into the present, he sees John nodding.

“It makes it harder.” John clears his throat, voice emerging roughened. “Being away from familiar territory. It’s more of a...a strain, I guess.”

Sherlock taps a finger to his lip. “Territory.” He repeats the word thoughtfully. John’s face flushes, turning red up to his ears. 

“I don’t mean like—” The sentence breaks into a low growl. Sherlock’s brows rise in surprise, watching John shift uncomfortably. “Okay, yeah. It’s what it sounds like.” His hands clench, embarrassment twisting his face. “Wolves are territorial. Baker Street is where I live, so the wolf sees it as his territory.”

“The...wolf?” Sherlock echoes, seeking clarification. At John’s nod, he frowns. “You speak as if it is separate from you.”

This time, John’s growl is accompanied by bared teeth. His upper lip rolls back in a seamless snarl, and, secretly, the display impresses Sherlock more than he would care to admit. “It  _ is _ separate. I am not the wolf, I’m me. It’s just—there. Always there.” The admission distresses John further. Working his fingers into his short hair, he tugs. Sherlock shifts closer, letting their shoulders brush. It seems to soothe John somehow, and his hands fall back to his sides but he doesn’t move away, letting the tenuous contact remain. Sherlock chooses to let the topic go, sensing the agitation thrumming below John’s skin.

“So territory equals safety, then?” John nods sharply and Sherlock’s eyes narrow, considering. “Being away from territory means the symptoms worsen?” John’s nod is slower this time. He hesitates, as if uncertain if he should give voice to his next words. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, silently encouraging. When John speaks, his words are low enough for Sherlock to strain in order to hear them.

“Yes and no.” Face creasing in a heavy frown, John digs his blunt nails against the fabric of his jeans. Sherlock notes the gesture as John pulls in a loud breath. “The new moon phase wouldn’t be so bad if I changed more often.” At Sherlock’s curious look, he waves a hand. “Werewolves changing only on the full moon is a myth. We—well, I can change anytime. As far as I know, and it’s not a lot, mind you, that is common. But I don’t because, well…” his voice trails off, shoulders lifting in a slow shrug. Understanding, Sherlock nods. 

“Because you were trying to hide.”

“Yeah.” John’s frown returns, deepening. “It was harder here, not just because it isn’t Baker Street. You smell enough like the flat to help with that.” John’s ears turn red again but he forges on, leaving no room for questions. “It was harder because this is not unclaimed territory.” With the flush fading, John looks Sherlock in the face. “There is a pack here. Or there was, recently.” He shakes his head. “It’s confusing. The scents don’t quite—they’re muddled. And, in this form, my nose isn’t as good. It’s better than a regular human’s but not as good as when I’m in my...other form.”

Sitting up straight, Sherlock turns wide eyes. “The black wolf. The man. It was his territory?” 

John hesitates, considering. Slowly, he nods. “Sort of. Partly, anyway.” His jaw tenses and his head shakes back and forth with frustration. “Like I said, it’s a bit confusing. I didn’t focus too much on his scent, was a little more focused on not being ripped apart.” The quirk of his lips is the first hint of John’s usual amusement in the face of dangerous conversations. His shoulders are a little less tense, drifting lower as the stiffness seeps from his body. Sherlock, their sides still touching, is grateful to feel the heavy vibration is no longer working its way down John’s arms. 

“I, uh. Thank you. For that. By the way.” Sherlock’s words are awkward in his mouth, too big and too small, fighting to stay deep in his throat. John snorts and knocks his shoulder with his own, the moment softening. 

“You’re welcome, you mad bastard.” Stretching, arms reaching over his head, John grins. “Maybe next time you get us lost in the woods, you could give me a heads up first.” 

Sherlock returns the smile with a small one of his own. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“No, you won’t.” A huge yawn cracks John’s voice, widening his mouth in a way that reminds Sherlock of sharp teeth and a much stronger jaw. Looking away, he pushes aside a strange thrill of excitement. 

“You should sleep.” 

Nodding, John’s eyes slide to the open door connecting their rooms. There is a flash of reluctance on his face, disappointment following on its heels before disappearing behind a flat expression. Sherlock catches both before they are gone. 

“Take the bed,” he says, standing and moving across the room to close the adjoining door. At John’s raised brow, he adds, “The body disappeared, which I’m assuming isn’t part of werewolf lore?” John shakes his head and Sherlock nods, resolute. “All right. Then we could be in danger of a repeat attack.” Hands rising, looking like he is about to protest, John falls still when Sherlock shoots him a hard look. “You are clearly exhausted, barely able to keep your eyes open.” As if prompted by the words, John yawns again, eyes half-closed when his jaw slips shut again. “I cannot ensure your safety if you are in the other room, behind a closed door, and you need to sleep. So.” He gestures to the bed. “Sleep here.” 

John makes half-hearted protests, lacking any real conviction. “I can leave the door open—” at another sharp look, he subsides with a sigh. “All right, all right. Fine.” Despite the reluctant words, John is already crawling under the comforter, curling onto his side with his back to the middle of the bed. When Sherlock joins him, slipping onto the other side of the mattress, John is already breathing low and even. Lying on his back, hands folded over his stomach, Sherlock listens to the rhythm of his inhales and exhales. John surprises him, muttering, “Don’t try and take a hair sample or something while I’m asleep.”

Snorting, Sherlock closes his eyes. “With how you shed, I don’t need to.” 

A low rumbling growl, closer to a laugh than anything aggressive, hums through the mattress from deep in John’s chest. “Bite me,” he retorts, and Sherlock can’t help but snort. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter, and then part one will end. Might be a bit of a break before I post the start of part two because I have to work on some deadline-sensitive prompts. But rest assured, there will be more of this after the next chapter, I promise!


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock wakes with a start, heart hammering in his chest. A dream—snapshots of wispy imagery, dissipating in the morning light reaching through the window—dissolves, leaving behind the faint memory of teeth and snarling jaws. Slowing his desperate gasping, the taste of fear fading on his tongue, he turns his head. Face pressed against the pillow, arms and legs curled tight against his body, away from the space between them, John is awake. His vibrant eyes are wide and fixed on Sherlock’s face, mouth a stiff, hard line. Every inch of muscle speaks of tense readiness. As Sherlock watches, the taut body language eases, tendons relaxing in John’s neck. 

“Nightmare?” 

Nodding, Sherlock sits up slowly, wincing at the ache in his chest. Absentminded, he rubs at the bandages under his shirt, reaching for his phone on the bedside table to check the time. Just after 9 am. Smoothing a hand over his face, he looks to John. Studies the dark shadows under John’s eyes, finding them a little lighter, and sighs. 

“Right.” John pauses, glancing at the window. “I’m going for a shower.” Without waiting for a response, he slips out from under the comforter, padding across the room and disappearing through the adjoining door connecting their rooms. Tilting his head, Sherlock listens, eyes narrowed, waiting for any strange sound. Anything that might hint at danger.

What meets his ears is the sound of creaking, groaning pipes, and running water through the wall. Sighing, he lets himself tip back into the pillows, looking at the ceiling. His heart rate is slowing, released from the epinephrine rush of the dream. The black wolf had stalked him through an uneasy sleep. This time, when it charged, there had been no John to stop it. Sherlock had felt teeth sink into his body, ripping through flesh and organs. 

When he had fallen to the muddy ground, it had been beside John’s corpse, the throat torn away.

Closing his eyes, shaking the distorted image away, Sherlock slips out of bed. Glances at the indentation on the opposite side before making his way into the bathroom of his room. Standing before the mirror, he painstakingly unravels the bandage circling his upper torso, folding it into a neat roll on the counter beside the sink.

The shower is hot and soothing, easing the bone-deep ache of bruises and scratched skin. Lifting his arms to lather hotel shampoo through his hair makes the breath catch in his lungs, tugging at the sore ribs. Once he is clean and sud-free, Sherlock towels dry, combing his hair into order. 

Walking out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, a huffing intake of breath makes him freeze. Head whipping around, he catches John just as he turns in the adjoining doorway and marches, stiff-backed, into his own room, calling “Sorry,” over his shoulder. Sherlock gets a glimpse of red ears before he disappears entirely. 

Pulling on pants and trousers, Sherlock moves to the adjoining door, tapping at the frame before peering into the other room. John, sitting on the bed, looks up. His eyes rake over Sherlock’s bare torso, settling on his face with a slight flush darkening his features. “Yes?” 

Sherlock holds up the rolled bandage. “Could you help me with this?” 

After a moment of hesitation, John tilts his head in a curt nod. Sherlock enters the room fully, taking in the military neatness of John’s open suitcase, the clothes inside folded into squares, toiletries tucked into a side pouch in perfect order. 

“Lift your arms,” John instructs. Doing so, Sherlock stands still, focusing on keeping his breathing even and balanced as John wraps the bandage around his ribcage. His movements are methodical and controlled, the practice evident in the rolling of his wrists and the way he tucks the end into a neat little fold once finished. When he steps away, Sherlock takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, testing the restriction. The bandage is snug but not uncomfortable. Sherlock smiles, an expression John returns for a moment. Slowly, it slides off his face. His eyes flicker over Sherlock’s form and away, a small frown creasing the skin between his eyes. Sherlock shoots him a look. When nothing is forthcoming, he nods. 

“Thanks.” 

John returns the gesture and Sherlock turns away to find a shirt in his own room.

******

When John joins him again, Sherlock is fully dressed and seated on the edge of the bed, hands folded together beneath his chin. Looking up, he studies John’s face, thinking. John stares back, his head tilting to the left. “What is it?” 

Hesitant, Sherlock’s tongue presses to his bottom lip. In his pocket is the tuft of black fur from the marsh, and he strokes the rough texture between his fingers as he pulls it out. John’s eyes narrow, squinting at the offering. All at once, his nostrils flare, pupils contracting. 

“How did you…” his voice trails off and he moves forward with wary steps. Standing in front of Sherlock, close enough to almost brush the detective’s bent knees, John reaches out to pluck the fur from Sherlock’s fingers, his own hand shaking. “Where did this come from?”

Watching John’s face, Sherlock pulls in a deep breath. “It was left where the body was. After it disappeared.” John’s eyes flicker to his and Sherlock nods. “I don’t know why it disappeared, but I know we didn’t imagine it.” He winces at a twinge from his ribs. John’s eyes dart over Sherlock’s chest, to the sallow bruise on his jaw, back to the fur gripped between his thumb and index finger.

“Could you track it?” 

John’s eyes widen, moving to Sherlock’s face again. Looking down at the fur, lips twisting, he pauses. Closes his eyes and brings the tuft to his face, taking a long, deep breath. When his eyelids flutter open, pale lashes turned to gold by the light from the window, the pupils dilate and contract. 

“Not in this form.” Tongue flicking out over his upper lip, John’s jaw clenches. “I would need to...the wolf could do it.” 

Sherlock nods. Places his elbows on his knees, tilting forward with steepled fingers pressing into his chin. “I’m not sure how to move forward.” The admission is reluctant. John’s lips twitch to the side in faint amusement. 

“That’s a first.” The words prompt a sharp look from Sherlock and John shrugs in response. “It’s not often you admit you’re stumped.”

“Yes, well.” Standing, Sherlock straightens his shirt. “I am a  _ bit _ out of my depth here, to be fair.” The small smile tugs at John’s lips again before fading, eyes dropping to the fur in his hand.

“Tell me about it,” he murmurs, the tone faintly bitter. When Sherlock holds out his hand, John places the tuft of fur in his palm. His eyes remain riveted on the object, even as Sherlock’s long fingers close over it. Once it is slipped into a pocket, disappearing again, John looks away, toward the window. His jaw works, tense, muscles moving like he is chewing over the problem. Glancing back at Sherlock, his brow furrows and clears. “What now?”

Lifting his Belstaff, grimacing at the swamp smell caught in the thick fibres and dropping it back on the hook, Sherlock turns to face him again. “Now, we go to give our statements. Then we figure out our next move.” 

******

Keeping their statements vague is agreed upon before leaving the hotel. Walking through the small town to the police station, they settle on a basic storyline: lost out on the moors, searching for a lead on the case. Someone must have attacked them because they woke with injuries in unfamiliar surroundings. The aggressor stole John’s clothing and watch, and they both assume it was a transient, desperate and without options. 

The officer seems skeptical, his eyes narrowed, but lets them leave without further question or challenge. The acceptance is mainly due to Sherlock laying on the injured tourist act, keeping his eyes wide and his mouth running with all sorts of panicky nonsense. The facade makes John giggle on the way back to their hotel, and the sound is enough to make Sherlock smile. It is familiar and comforting, breeding gratitude in the pit of his stomach.

Sentiment, too, but he ignores that bit. 

Approaching the hotel, they are stopped in their tracks by a young man. The sight of him draws Sherlock up short, the easy laughter dying on John’s lips beside him.

“Excuse me, sirs.” The smile turned their way is apologetic, reeking of professional detachment.

Eyes wandering over the man, Sherlock takes in his short-cropped hair, stiff stance, the neat, rigid press of his clothing. His hard stare is met with a calm, blank face, and the man’s dark eyes flicker to John, narrow, and shift back to Sherlock. 

“Can we help you?” Sherlock’s voice is cold and impersonal. At his side, he feels John stiffen.

“I’ve been asked to escort you to the train station, Mister Holmes. Doctor Watson.” The young man inclines his head to John, whose stiff posture tenses even more. Sherlock moves casually, knocking his knuckles against John’s fisted hand. John twitches and relaxes enough for his face to go smooth, while his shoulders remain lifted and rigid. 

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looks the man over again. “Does this have anything to do with Mycroft Holmes?” 

The man’s eyes slide away. “I’m afraid I can’t say anything more, sir.” 

Sherlock’s lips press together. He glances at John, taking in the thoughtful, distant expression on his face before looking back to the man before them. “All right. We just need to go inside and grab our things—”

“Your personal effects have already been packed in the car, sir.” Tilting his head, the man gestures to a long black sedan as it pulls up beside them. “Please, sirs. You don’t want to miss your train.” 

“Of course.” Sherlock clears his throat, tone hard. “Wouldn’t want that.” Shooting John another look, the familiar face still pensive, distracted, Sherlock slips into the car, the young man holding the door open for him. Sliding to the far seat, John ducking in behind, Sherlock stares out the window. A dark, tinted window separates them from the front of the car, and the vehicle rumbles to life as soon as the door closes, pulling away from the hotel with a mechanical purr. 

Brooding, Sherlock nearly misses it when John’s fingertips press lightly to his arm. He turns to find John frowning, leaning close. When he speaks, his voice is hardly more than a whisper.

“That man wasn’t a civilian, Sherlock. He was military. Low-ranking, but definitely military.” 

Sherlock’s mouth purses. “I know.”

Blue eyes searching his face, John frowns. “Is it Mycroft?” 

Nodding, Sherlock folds his arms over his chest. This reeks to high heaven of his brother, all this abrupt, cloak-and-dagger ambush. “Probably.”

“What do you think it means?” 

Sherlock’s brows furrow and he looks at John with a slow shake of his head. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

**-END OF PART ONE-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so ends part one. part two will be forthcoming, but not right away. have to work on some other projects, but it will be in this same fic, so if you're subscribed to this story, you will be notified when it updates. it won't be ages before the next update, but it won't be right away!
> 
> thanks everyone, and please stay tuned for John's POV in the next part!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I change shapes just to hide in this place  
>  but I'm still, I'm still an animal  
> nobody knows it but me when I slip  
> I'm still an animal_
> 
> **Animal - Miike Snow**

**-PART TWO-**

John has known what he is since wolves surrounded him in the mountains of Kandahar, sinking teeth into his struggling body, rending muscle and flesh from bone. He hasn’t fully accepted the wolf beneath his skin but he knows it well. Knows its mind, its restless moods and loneliness.

Aside from the pack in Afghanistan, a mixture of the turned-feral Afghan and Tibetan wolves that gift him his wolf form’s sandy-coloured coat, John does not know of any others like him. He is the epitome of the lone wolf. 

When he meets Sherlock Holmes, the wolf in him recognizes a loner of another kind.  _ Pack _ , it breathes in a wondrous growl.  _ Finally.  _

There’s no use in fighting it, John comes to realize. Not when the wolf singles Sherlock out as its packmate. Not when Sherlock reads John’s life in his limp, posture and Harry’s gifted mobile phone and still drags him into his crazy life. 

Somehow, Sherlock seems to miss John’s biggest secret and John can’t be certain if he is relieved or disappointed. That first night, sitting on his new bed, he realizes it’s both. He is relieved to remain hidden in plain sight, disappointed to have to. 

It feels like John has always been in hiding, first from his childhood, then from his aching need for violence and adrenaline, and, now, by the beast the war made him, both in a literal and figurative sense. 

John does a good job of hiding, he thinks. Curls up under his bed when the change takes place before he can leave the flat and refuses to change other than when the full moon forces him to. He finds a balance in his new life, between the John Watson who helps Sherlock Holmes and the wolf that rips away his human body and whines for wide-open spaces outside of London’s dark side streets and concrete environment. 

The case in the countryside rips everything apart. Sherlock knows, has  _ always _ known, tracking John’s cycle with the same precision he tracks serial killers and thieves down dark London alleys. The wolf watches and the wolf admires, and John is the one struggling to hold back that lower part of himself that urges him to mark Sherlock. To make him his own because there is no one else like him and no one like John. 

When Sherlock stalks over the moors, a predator in his own right, John’s wolf whispers,  _ kindred spirit _ , identifying the shadow of the wolf in the man with the unruly curls and long coat. The wolf whispers  _ mine _ and  _ take _ . 

John knows it is only a matter of time before he has to leave or submit to the animal within. 

After the moon rips him from his human form, setting the wolf wild in the unfamiliar countryside, John lets the beast inside stretch its legs. All day, he has buzzed with annoyance, snapping at Sherlock, being yelled at by Sherlock, hushed by Sherlock.

The wolf darts over the moors, massive paws hammering over dirt and mud and muck, kicking up filth from the mire. Moonlight paints quicksilver over the landscape and John feels freer than he has since returning from Afghanistan, fresh, freezing air burning his lungs instead of the acrid tang of smoggy London. 

A part of him longs to disappear. To lose himself in the wolf, surrender to the beast and never return. It would be simpler to remain this way. To forget his human nature and clumsy two-legged body, the one bruised and battered by an unwinnable war. 

It is the howl that brings him back. The one that answers his own lonely cry, echoing over the hills and drawing John back to himself, into his mind with one thought:  _ Sherlock _ , followed by a brutal animal growl of  _ mine. _

The creature John encounters, driving it away from Sherlock, is no wolf. Not naturally, no more a real wolf than John is himself. The black wolf reeks of chemicals and something putrid like it is rotting from the inside out. Even when it knocks John back, sinking teeth into his body and drawing screams from his canine throat, he can feel the unnatural heat of the creature’s body. The fever flooding through the black fur-covered skin, dancing in wild, feral eyes. 

There is intelligence there, yes, and something more.  _ Madness. _ Pure, unadulterated madness that is nearly the downfall of John. He cannot predict the actions of a creature born through insanity and the bitter bite of delirium coats the wolf from snout to tail. 

John sinks his teeth deep in the aberration’s throat and tears until he tastes blood, salty and metallic with an underlying tone of something sour and  _ wrong. _ It is a taste that will stick in John’s mouth, long after he resumes his two-legged form and they return to Baker Street. For some reason that even he cannot pinpoint, he doesn’t tell Sherlock. Even after they are sent home by Mycroft through a message passed on by a young soldier, John keeps the taste to himself.

Maybe he holds his tongue because the wolf lingers close to the surface after they return to the hotel. When Sherlock wakes in the bed the morning before they leave, thrashing with nightmares, John watches him with teeth pressing into his bottom lip, fighting back the wolf. Fighting back the repeated whining in his head, the chanting litany of,  _ mine, mine, mine. _

But it’s different, now. Stronger, echoing like a sick thud against the inside of his head, pushing at his temples in a steady drumbeat. 

Later, when it drives him mad, John will wish he had said something. 

******

Curled up in his chair in the sitting room of Baker Street, John watches Sherlock pace. His feet wear a faint pattern over the red rug, moving from fireplace to sofa and back again. He’s tried to look away several times, dragging his eyes back to the paper in front of his face only to find the words indecipherable, focus drawn to Sherlock’s jerky movements, tracking him like a predator tracks prey.

His eyes follow the detective while the wolf whispers,  _ pack _ and  _ take _ and  _ mine. _ John clenches his jaw. 

“I don’t understand.” 

Sherlock’s angry words break into and scatter his thoughts. His voice is rough with frustration and he tugs a hand through his curls. The action disperses the detective’s scent and John’s nostrils flare, pupils dilating. 

The wolf in him orders him to settle low and pounce but John tamps the urge down. Casually, he covers his nose and mouth, pretending to prop his jaw against his hand, elbow on the armrest. Breathing against his own skin helps muffle Sherlock’s acrid scent of adrenaline, cigarettes and expensive hair products, and John feels his heart rate slow. The wolf subsides with a grumble and he exhales in tentative relief. 

Suddenly, Sherlock halts and rounds on him. John’s back stiffens, shoulders hunching at the aggressive loom of the other man. “Why aren’t you more annoyed about this?” Sherlock demands, his face tense and twisted. 

Before John can stop himself, his upper lip draws back in a warning snarl. The sound he makes, deep in his chest and clearly dominating, makes them both freeze, Sherlock with his eyes fluttering wide and John with a wince. 

“Sorry,” John breathes, closing his eyes and taking in a long inhale to try and soothe his response. Instead, he gets a heady lungful of Sherlock’s scent, a thousand times stronger with the proximity and reactivity. He can  _ hear _ Sherlock’s heart, thundering away in the chest barely a few feet from him. 

Fingers flexing, John digs his hands into the armrest. 

“John,” Sherlock begins, falling quiet when John stands and they are suddenly chest-to-chest. Expecting Sherlock to step back at his movement, John’s eyes widen, pupils dilating, mouth falling open without his control. He can  _ taste _ Sherlock now, his scent heavy and tangible on his tongue, filling his mouth until it waters. 

“I need—need to—” John stammers and blinks hard, closing his mouth with a click of teeth. “I need to go for a walk.” 

With the wolf snarling  _ mine, mine, mine _ in his head, he pushes past Sherlock and makes his way to the stairs, descending them with jerky steps. He forgets to grab his jacket but knows he won’t need it. The wolf is howling at him, driving up his blood pressure and the temperature of his body the further he moves from Sherlock, demanding he turn back and take what is his. 

Sherlock’s voice follows him down the stairs and John marches on, pace quickening until he bursts through the street-level door, running as he moves away from the flat. He knows if he were to look over his shoulder, that Sherlock’s shocked face will be watching him from the second-floor windows. He also knows, if he does look back, the wolf will win and he will scale the steps just to shove Sherlock against the wall and claim him. 

And he can’t do that.

John runs, his breathing turning hard and aching in his lungs. He does not dare let the wolf out, even though it snarls to be set free. If he does, it will turn them back. 

In a matter of days, the chemical taste hovering in his mouth from the black wolf’s blood will turn him mad and John will wish he had never met Sherlock Holmes. That there was no wolf lingering beneath his humanity, driving him wild with something unidentified in his veins.

_ Mine, mine, mine _ it growls, making John grit his teeth, a word ripping from his throat despite his clamped jaw. 

_ “Mate.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update but an update nonetheless.   
> Not sure how often this will be updated, but updated it shall be.


	8. Chapter 8

When Sherlock’s scent came to mean ‘home’ to the wolf inside of John is unknown. All he knows is it has become a fact. A fixed point. During the time they spent in the countryside hotel, John’s ‘condition’ had intensified ten-fold and he barely remembers the day he lost to the New Moon fugue. Even with Sherlock’s scent, he had been unaware of the detective’s presence, something unprecedented since returning from the military. 

Even now, with the distance between John and 221B, Sherlock’s unique smell clings. It drapes over him, steeped into his clothing, his hair and skin, as impossible to separate himself from as John from the wolf. Sherlock’s scent has always been prominent but now it is maddening, driving John further and further from home, stretching out until the wolf within howls. 

Beneath it all, cloying, putrified, is the taste of the black wolf’s blood in his mouth.

******

By the time John drags himself home, it is dark, the sun long since set. The half-crescent moon above does little to light his way and he wishes for the sharper sight of his other form but doesn’t dare to release it, not when his feet hit Baker Street and Sherlock’s sharp smell hits him even before the black door comes into view.

Inside, the flat is empty and dark. John pauses on the landing, head tilting with his nostrils flared. The smell of Sherlock is all over, pooling like liquid on the leather chair in front of the fire and on the couch. 

But the flat is silent and John stiffens. Where is Sherlock? 

Most likely, a case has called him away. It is a logical, solid possibility. Still, something twinges over John’s skin, forcing the blonde hairs on his neck and arms to stand at attention. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, opening his mouth, letting the smells of the flat flood over his tongue. Even with his improved senses, his human form is pathetically predisposed to dulled input. 

The wolf paces, hovering under his skin.  _ Let me. _

John does. 

The change is never like what people assume, what is written about in horror stories and brutal supernatural movies. It is like falling into himself and exploding outward, all at once.

John falls to his hands and knees, bones folding inward and reshaping in a liquid-then-solid shift. Fur erupts over his body, rippling outward with his elongating spine and jaw. There is a sick crack, a wet sound of tendons stretching, and paws hit the floor, claws digging against the old, marked hardwood. 

Raising his head, John scents the air, each individual smell unique and obvious to him in this form. When he crosses the room, the wolf kicks its back legs against the rug in front of the fireplace, scratching scent and tracks through the material. Dimly, John realizes Mrs. Hudson will blame the damage on one of Sherlock’s many experiments, and the thought brings his focus back to the matter at hand. 

_ Sherlock. _

_ Mate? _ the wolf offers, the thought front-and-centre in their shared mind and oddly wistful. Snuffling, John swings his shaggy head around and presses his nose to the carpet, tracing Sherlock’s earlier pacing over the threads. The smell mingles with his own, gun oil, tea and wool with a hint of something musty underneath that John recognizes as the wolf in him. And something more. 

A reflection of the taste in his mouth that hasn’t left since that night on the moors, bitter and acrid and altogether  _ wrong. _

A low whine drifts from his open jaws, tongue hanging out in a stressed pant. Ears twitching back, John pads in a slow circle, suddenly confused. The smells mingle, tangle into something complicated and undefinable, casting him into a daze. 

Something isn’t right but John can’t tell if it’s him or Sherlock. Is Sherlock missing? Was he taken? Did John do something?

Who is John?

His paws slip, dumping him into an unceremonious heap on the carpet, legs kicking in surprise. Tail twitching, the wolf sprawls on its side, panting heavily with sides heaving.

There are footsteps on the stairs and the wolf whines but doesn’t rise, feet moving in aimless little pawing motions. 

“John?”

A man is standing over him. The wolf tries to raise its head but the movement is impossible, everything heavy, heavy, weighted down with something unseen and intangible. Whining, the wolf’s eyes rove, rolling to study the man. Dark hair, tall. An angular, sharp face.  _ Safe. Pack.  _

_ Mate? _

The wolf whines again and the man, frowning, bends his legs to kneel beside him. He speaks and the wolf rumbles deep in its chest, the words washing over him like sound. Something filters through, a name that seems familiar: _ John. _

_ John?  _

Reaching out a hesitant hand, the man strokes through the fur on the wolf’s side, running higher, fingers digging into the thick ruff around his neck. It comes again, the name.

_ John. _

Right. Him. That is familiar.  _ He _ is John. Isn’t he? Man or wolf, he doesn’t know the answer.

“John,” the man says. He leans over, planting one hand behind the wolf’s back, caging him in between his arms. “John, what’s wrong? I don’t know how to help you. Tell me what to do.”

The wolf kicks its legs again before shifting onto its stomach, burying its nose against the man’s stomach. Every inhale fills its snout with familiarity. Cigarettes and hair products and violin rosin. 

“John?”

_ Pack,  _ hums the wolf.  _ Sherlock. _

_ Sherlock. _

With a shudder, the wolf’s body melts away, fur disappearing into skin and scars, flesh and familiar bone. In its place, shivering against the rough fibres of the carpet, John Watson closes his eyes and curls in on himself with his head in his flatmate’s lap. 

******

“John.”

Huddled before the fire, a mug of tea cradled between his still-shaking hands, John watches the flames dance.

_ “John.” _

“No, Sherlock.” Clearing his throat, John settles deeper into his chair. “I don’t want to talk about it. Stop asking.”

Silence stretches out. Sherlock doesn’t speak but John can sense him, hovering just beside his chair. 

“But John, I—”

_ “Sherlock.” _ The name snaps out from John’s mouth, bordering on a growl. 

A sound of frustration answers his unspoken order and Sherlock drops into the chair across from his. Sliding down into a sprawl, his bony knees nearly brush John’s and John wonders when their chairs came to be so close. 

Drawing deeper into his seat, he drinks the tea and pulls a face. “Did you put something in this?”

“Just milk,” Sherlock replies, glowering at the fire. 

John takes another sip and grimaces. The expression pulls Sherlock’s eyes to his, a small frown furrowing his brow. Squinting at him over the rim of his mug, John asks, “Did you do something to the milk?”

Sherlock’s frown deepens. “No, John. It’s regular milk.” 

Setting the mug aside with a wince of distaste as the third sip tastes like ashes in his mouth, John scrubs at his lips with the back of a hand. “Must be off, then.”

Lips pursing, Sherlock stares at him. “You bought it yesterday. It’s best before the fifth.” 

John pauses in his reach for the newspaper. “Right.” The action aborted, he drops his hands back into his laps. Looking to the fire as well, he wraps his arms tight around his stomach. “Right.”

Sherlock’s eyes are sharp on his face and John tries to ignore them.

“John—”

“ _ No.” _

A harsh noise bursts forth from Sherlock’s mouth, angry and startling them both. Before John has resettled himself, Sherlock is snapping, “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong with you?”

John keeps his eyes on the fire, his face carefully blank. “Because there’s nothing wrong with me.”

Sherlock snorts, derisive. “You’re a terrible liar, John.” 

John clenches his jaw but doesn’t answer. Watching him, Sherlock sighs. 

“I want to help.” His voice is surprisingly earnest and, when John looks at him, the detective is leaning toward him, eyes bright, his face open. John closes his eyes.

“I don’t need help,” he breathes, “There’s nothing wrong with me.” 

When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock’s lips quirk. 

“As I said, John. A terrible liar.”

Shifting in the chair, John drops his feet to the floor and leans forward with hands braced on his knees. The posture is aggressive and Sherlock almost tilts back but seems to stop himself. His throat bobs around a swallow, a low clicking noise that John picks up as if it were a shout. 

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

The words catch them both by surprise, John because he hadn’t meant to ask them. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter. 

“What makes you think…” Sherlock pauses, eyes flickering over John’s face before continuing, “that I want anything?” 

Still leaning forward, Sherlock now mirroring him, their faces are intent and hardly a foot apart. John watches Sherlock’s throat bob in another hard swallow and replies, “Because you never ask me if something is wrong.” His eyes narrow. “And you definitely do not make tea.” John pulls a face. “Which is good, because I have no idea what you did to make it so terrible.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the tea, John.” Sherlock’s voice is soft and weighted with something John can’t quite identify.

John’s brows drop low over his eyes. “Answer the question.” At Sherlock’s continued silence, his lips press back over his teeth. “Why do you suddenly care so much, Sherlock? What do you  _ want?” _

Sherlock inhales, the sound loud and stuttering between them. For a second, John thinks he isn’t going to answer. Then, hands folding together, twisting into a complex, white-knuckled grip on his knees, Sherlock does.

“I want you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these chapters are so short


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earned this fic some new tags for aggressive sex, biting/scratching and possessive/territorial behaviour.

The words startle them both. Despite Sherlock’s vague display of considering his response, the detective’s face flushes a sudden and almost alarming shade of red before he ducks his head to stare at the floor. Just as taken aback as the man sitting statue-still across from him, John pulls in an uneven breath. He is suddenly very aware that all he is wearing over his post-transformation nudity is the couch blanket. He draws it tighter around himself, considering Sherlock’s announcement. 

“What…” John chooses his words with care, tongue flicking out to wet his dry lips. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Sherlock’s eyes are on his hands, folded in his lap. When they finally flicker to John’s face, the flush is beginning to fade from his face until only his cheeks are tinged, sharp cheekbones bright with colour. 

“It means how it sounds.” 

John’s brow furrows. “Okay, sure. Very helpful.” The attempt at humour falls flat. Sherlock sags back into his chair, a loose heap of long limbs and a dark scowl.

“Forget it,” he mutters. Sighing, John reaches out to touch Sherlock’s knee. The contact is uncertain, his fingers shaking, barely brushing skin and bone through expensive trousers. But it is a touch nonetheless and Sherlock’s breathing hitches. 

“Listen,” John pauses, solidifies his touch into more of a grip, giving Sherlock’s leg a gentle squeeze before leaning back and away. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just...well, I guess I’m surprised.” Sherlock’s chest sinks as air whooshes from his mouth.

“Of course.” Studying his nails, the detective nods. “Such a rational reaction.” His eyes flick up to meet John’s, narrowing and searching his face. “That’s you all over, isn’t it, John?” At John’s confused expression, Sherlock adds, “John Watson, the doctor. The soldier. Man of rationality and forethought in everything but violence and shooting criminals.” His lips quirk up at the corners. John offers a hesitant smile in return. 

“If you say so." 

Sherlock’s lashes flutter, lids low over his eyes, casting spidery shadows over his pale cheeks. “Oh, I do.”

“Good to know,” John mutters, subsiding to process the information. Seemingly willing to let him think, Sherlock doesn’t speak. Hands steepled beneath his lips, elbows balanced on the armrests, Sherlock watches him silently. His eyes dart over John’s face, palpable in their intensity. John tries to ignore the way they strip him down to the bone. 

_A rational reaction._

Is it? How does one react to a love confession from Sherlock Holmes? Even more prudent, has anyone ever received such a thing, aside from John?

 _He didn’t say he loved you,_ John’s (apparently) rational mind reminds him, even as the wolf nudges beneath the surface of his skin to note, _mate._ The wolf feels sluggish, strangely uninterested in the conversation. Compared to its earlier and endless chant of _mine, mine, mine,_ there is a startling feeling of silence.

His patience running out, Sherlock leans forward to touch tentative fingers to the back of John’s hand where it rests on John’s thigh. “John?” His tone is soft and questioning, yet deeply intrusive. At the contact, the wolf rumbles and John shudders in response. Sherlock’s eyes darken, but he doesn’t move away.

John clears his throat, focusing on the man in front of him. “When you say you ‘want me,’” he begins, the words halting. “You mean…?”

Sherlock’s eyes are depthless pools in his pale face, black and empty as the New Moon that renders John torpid and exhausted. 

_“Everything,”_ he breathes. “I mean, I want everything.” 

John’s breath catches and he grips the armrests of his chair with hands that feel closer to claws. “Sherlock..." 

The detective cuts him off with harshly spoken words. “Don’t, John.” His eyes narrow, face darkening with sudden fierce intensity. “Don’t.” 

John digs his fingernails deeper into the threadbare fabric of his chair. “Sherlock, there are things that you don’t understand.” 

Leaning forward, every line in his body predatory and intent, Sherlock locks a hand over one of John’s. “Then explain them to me.” His eyes flash, hard glimmers in the dark. “Make me understand.”

John’s teeth drop against his bottom lip, and he shakes his head. “I really can’t.” 

Sherlock’s face shutters, lip curling back. The display makes John feel a heavy sense of regret. But he can’t tell Sherlock the truth. Can’t tell him that the wolf in him doesn’t just make him different, it makes him _inhuman._ Makes him want with the ferocity of the beast, not a man.

There’s no way to make Sherlock understand that he could destroy him and John is too much of a coward to take the chance.

“I can’t,” he repeats. Sherlock’s brow furrows, mouth twisting to the side with a furious sneer. 

“Well, John,” he breathes, dropping his other hand over John’s as he rises from his chair and leans over him. “I think you underestimate yourself.” 

John’s hands twitch, caged in place by Sherlock’s. The wolf, still oddly sluggish, growls, making John’s head jerk upward, body stiffening. His will softens, stretched thin by Sherlock’s sudden proximity.

His sneer shifting into a slow smile, Sherlock whispers, “Sentiment.”

Before John can reply, still processing the strange comment, Sherlock closes the distance between them. His mouth finds John’s, brushes his lips first with gentle uncertainty, then a hungry press of teeth. His initial shock wearing off, John leans his head back, breaking the contact to look up at Sherlock looming over him. 

“Sherlock—”

Shaking his head, Sherlock raises one hand to John’s face, long fingers cradling his jaw. “Don’t,” he breathes. “Please, John. Don’t.” 

John stares at him, Sherlock’s palm warm against his face. He searches the detective’s pale, prismatic eyes, his own flicking over Sherlock’s desperate expression, the earnest moue of his mouth. Despite the complex roil of emotion rumbling in his chest, John still hesitates. Sherlock’s face turns radiant in response to his silence, a smile curving his lips.

 _“John,”_ he murmurs.

Everything happens at once. Sherlock moves forward, dropping his knees on either side of John, straddling his lap and gripping his face between both hands. The touch is like fire, turning everywhere their bodies connect into a building inferno. Sherlock’s lips on his, his fingers scratching at the edge of John’s jaw, combing through his hair, his hips restless and determined against his thighs: he is a wildfire, consuming John where he sits.

Head falling back, John groans. Sherlock’s lips drop to his throat, mouthing at the curve of tendons, teeth leaving typewriter marks over the hard ridge of his trachea. Settling his hands on Sherlock’s shifting hips, John closes his eyes and bucks upward. The involuntary action draws a low hum from Sherlock. It vibrates against the underside of John's jaw as the detective sucks a bruise into the skin there, pressing hot and hard against John’s thigh. 

John’s will shatters.

The wolf surges forward with a howl. Lunging up, John grabs handfuls of Sherlock’s curls, dragging his mouth down, biting hard at his lips and swallowing Sherlock’s soft cry of surprise. 

“Off,” John pants, tugging at Sherlock’s shirt, fingers clumsy and stupid as they move over the buttons. “Take this off.” The wolf does not understand clothing, which means now John doesn’t either, his blind lust wiping everything but Sherlock from his mind. “Want you, want you, want you.” The chant is breathless, John’s curled fingers clawing at the fabric while Sherlock rushes to remove his shirt. He manages to toss it away and starts on his trousers, John tugging them off once Sherlock shimmies them down his hips. The expensive blue pants beneath are next, discarded by John’s wild toss before he is pressing Sherlock off him, toward the floor.

His hands hit the detective’s chest, pushing him down, dropping to follow him on his knees, the carpet rough against his skin. Sherlock sprawls, eyes wide and dark, face flushed, body transformed into an alluring pink and ivory landscape. His cock stands hard and slender against the curve of his hip, and John drops his hands on Sherlock’s thighs, fingers working into the muscles. Voicing a low growl in his throat, the wolf pawing restlessly within, John bends and drags his tongue in a sloppy line over the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, up over his twitching cock. Above him, Sherlock cries out, hands spasming against the floor. 

_Mine,_ the wolf roars. John’s nails dig into skin, making Sherlock squirm under him as he laps eagerly at the soft flesh of Sherlock’s bollocks. _Mine, mine, mine_ , becomes a litany that emerges from John’s own mouth, guttural, aching, undeniable. He takes Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the head, cheeks hollowing with a deep rumble in his chest. The sound vibrates through his jaw, and Sherlock’s hips buck up, driving the tip of his erection hard against John’s soft palate. Snarling, John pins him harder against the floor, ducking his head to bring him deeper into his mouth. He swallows around the end of Sherlock’s cock until the detective is convulsing beneath him, shouting John's name over and over as his come floods into John’s mouth, trickling down his throat.

Still shivering, Sherlock stares up at the ceiling with evident shock. John’s tongue flicks out, cleaning a spot of missed release from the dip of Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock trembles at the slick touch before shifting to sit up.

John is on him at once, hands on his chest and shoulder, pressing him back to the floor. The wolf in him voices a heavy whining growl that emerges from John’s mouth. Head dropping, he nuzzles into the curve of Sherlock’s jaw and sinks his teeth against the pulse point, hard but not quite breaking the skin. Sherlock falls back and goes still, panting loudly next to John’s ear.

“John?” he whispers. The sound of his voice, the smell of him, sweat and lust and come, drive John into a frenzy. He sees red, sees grey, sees nothing but the man beneath him. Nothing beyond what is his, what he wants, what he owns. 

The wolf howls, loud and deafening in his head and John ruts against the bony ridge of Sherlock’s hip, hard cock painting a line of pre-come over the skin. Sherlock groans, locking his hands around John’s shoulders, pulling him closer. John whimpers and whines and bites Sherlock’s neck, his collar bones, his trapezius muscle, anywhere he can reach. The marks rise dark and immediate on pale flesh, John’s nails scratching long, red lines down Sherlock’s sides. 

The friction between them is brutal, a hot drag of John’s erection against Sherlock’s thigh, his stomach, his softened cock, oversensitive and twitching. The wolf in him whines, _mate, mate, mate_ and _take, take, take,_ leaving John helpless to the wash of instincts drowning him. Trapped beneath him, head thrown back and lowered eyelashes drawing shadows over his flushed cheeks, Sherlock moans and whispers John’s name in broken breaths. 

John’s body goes tense before his jaw jerks upward, eyes widening as the orgasm roars through him with the force of a bullet from a gun. His release spurts over Sherlock’s lower stomach, thighs and pubic hair, John snarling his way through the aftershock with nails digging against skin and twitching muscle. 

When he falls still, everything swirls black and he collapses onto Sherlock’s chest with a grunt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get ready to be confused for a bit. Things will be explained, I promise.

John’s eyes flash open, a sound setting his body alight with immediate, adrenaline-inducing readiness. Ears pricked, he hunkers over the warm form beneath him, head swinging around to take in the surroundings. His mate shifts under him and John’s teeth click together in warning. He nuzzles his nose against a clammy neck, the smell of salt emanating strong and heady from the skin under his face. He hums his approval as his mate falls still, John rising to stand stiff-legged over the body beneath his. 

Looking down into pale, wide eyes, recognition slams John back into his head with stunning force. As his mind recalculates, he realizes he is not the wolf but the man, braced over Sherlock’s naked form on his hands and knees, limbs shaking with adrenaline.

_Sherlock._

“Oh, god,” John breathes. Scrambling away, ignoring the snarl of the wolf in his head, his shoulders hit the edge of the coffee table, staring at Sherlock. At the bruises, bite marks and long scratches marring pale skin, marking the topography of his slender body. “Oh, fuck.” 

Sitting up, wincing, Sherlock holds up his hands, going still when John’s shoulders rise and hunch. John feels his upper lip curl back without control and covers his face with his hands.

“John.” Sherlock’s fingers brush his arms before John jerks away. Sherlock grabs his wrists, yanking John’s hands down from his face. Blinking his eyes open, John looks at Sherlock’s face, inches from his and steady. “John,” he says again, the name filtering through the hazy fog scattering John’s thoughts in his panicky head. “Stop freaking out.” 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John snaps, tempted to pull away but holding still as the wolf hums with contentedness at Sherlock’s proximity. “Look at you—look what I’ve _done.”_

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he replies. His perfect calm is infuriating, and a soft growl vibrates low in John’s chest. He doesn’t plan it, the sound emerging as suddenly as the way his lip had curled, and he shoves backward hard enough to tip over the coffee table. It crashes to the floor. Sherlock flinches but doesn’t retreat. 

“Listen to me—” he begins, scowling when John begins to struggle with him. John has the upper hand, pinning him to the ground with ease, one knee settling hard against the tender muscles of Sherlock’s upper thighs. 

John’s face is darting toward Sherlock’s face before he realizes what he is doing, lips drawn back with teeth fastened on the curve of Sherlock’s neck. It is not a bite meant to kill, only to subdue, meant to put the detective in his place, but alarm bells ring in John’s head. Loosening his jaw, thankful for his ordinary, blunt human teeth, he rears back and finds his feet, stumbling over the overturned table 

“John, stop!” Sherlock’s voice is hard and loud. Despite his nudity, he strikes an imposing figure when he rises and John’s shoulders round, body ducking lower to the ground as instinct forces him into a defensive posture. Sherlock takes a step back, his expression wary. “John?” 

His skin begins to itch, bones aching. Eyes squeezing shut, John bites hard on his tongue until blood floods his mouth with the taste of metal. Wrenching himself around, a snarl rips from his clenched teeth, fading as he bolts for the door, pushing through and taking the steps up to the third floor in unsteady bounds. 

He crashes through the door to his bedroom with a huff, locking it behind him before slamming his back against the wood and sliding down to the floor. His breathing comes in jagged gasps, heart pounding in his chest.

On the other side of the door, Sherlock’s footsteps are loud on the stairs, followed by his fist banging against the wood. “John!” Something whacks against the panel, the resonance bringing to mind an image of Sherlock’s open palm. “John, open the door!” 

John covers his ears with his hands. Whining, he curls into himself with a pained cry. Sherlock stops his knocking and tries the handle, wildly jiggling the knob to no avail. 

“Don’t come in, Sherlock,” John warns, voice strained. “I mean it—if you do, I can’t—I won’t—” the words die off in a groan. Sherlock’s banging begins anew, fierce and desperate. 

“John, what is it? Tell me! You didn’t do anything wrong, John.” Sherlock’s voice is high and loud, piercing through his ears and sending the wolf into wild fits of panic. 

_MateDangerProtect._

The words scream through John’s head, blazing, blinding, deafening. He falls onto his side, the change already shuddering through his body before he even hits the ground. A low whine rips from his throat, rising up and rounding into a distraught howl.

Sherlock’s voice cuts out. The banging on the door stops and John lays panting on his side in wolf form. The bitter taste of the black wolf’s blood is putrid in his mouth before everything goes dark.

******

The room is bright with sunlight. He is in a strange place, lying on his side, flank exposed and vulnerable. His head skids across the hard ground, eyes darting around unfamiliar objects. Nothing looks right. There is no forest nor field here, and the sky above is hidden from him by an unbroken cover that is nothing like the tops of trees. 

The wolf lets out a low whine and struggles onto his stomach. His body is slow and uncomfortable, familiar but not, a perfect match to the strange enclosure he finds himself in. When he moves to stand and take a loping step forward, the limbs beneath him won’t move as they should, and everything feels wrong. Looking himself over, he finds himself furless and bare, back legs long and bending the wrong way. In place of his paws are the long appendages of Not-Wolves. 

Snuffling, the wolf presses his face to the floor and inhales, a loud _huff_ that brings very little in the form of information. His smell is off as well, deadened like his hearing and sight. There are colours, ones he has never seen, dancing in the sun-lit dust motes caught in the light spilling through a square in the side of the enclosure. _Window_ , says something deep in his head, a voice outside of his own thoughts. Making his slow, clumsy way on his wrong-legs to the window, the wolf pulls himself onto a ledge and stares out at a concrete jungle. 

A noise behind him makes him freeze and whirl, tipping to the side in his suddenly unfamiliar body. Righting himself, he watches the wall swing open and lowers himself back on his haunches with stiff readiness. 

The Not-Wolf that steps through is tall, its body covered in strange patches of colour, hiding its sex and scent. Head rising, the wolf inhales, catches the faintest whisper of sweat beneath bitter, basic smells. 

_Human_ , his mind supplies, followed by _man_ and his own familiar thoughts, humming, _mate?_

The last is a question with an unexpected answer. As the man moves closer, the wolf opens his mouth to voice a curious yip. What emerges instead is something else, no more a bark than a howl is a whine.

What escapes the wolf’s mouth is the language of a human, a pitiful gasp of _“help”_ that makes the approaching man freeze. The wolf growls, the sound higher and not nearly as threatening in this strange new body, but the message is not lost on the human in the room. Hands lowering, he drops to one knee, movements slow and careful.

“John,” he says gently. The wolf ducks his head, mouth falling open to taste the stagnant air for fear. He whines his frustration, deadened senses telling him next to nothing. As if understanding, the man nods, inching forward with caution. “It’s alright. It’s me, John.” The man pauses and presses a palm to his own chest. “It’s Sherlock.” He extends the same hand as the wolf stares at the pulse fluttering beneath his jaw. “I won’t hurt you.” 

The hand hovers between them, palm up and fingers open. Head cocked to the side, tongue darting out to lick over the warm flesh of his shortened snout, the wolf eases forward. 

When he drops to his stomach, awkward with his unfamiliar legs, the man sucks in a breath but remains. His hand shakes. The wolf’s eyes widen and narrow, nose twitching, tongue peeking out despite knowing the air holds almost no scent or taste in this awkward, unfamiliar body.

He eases forward until the tips of the man’s fingers brush his face. The man’s expression changes, showing his teeth in an expression that the wolf reads as threatening, even while something in his head whispers, _friendly, smile._

The second word is foreign, but the wolf recognizes the underlying message: _not a threat._

Whining low in his throat, the wolf relaxes. Letting his body go loose, he slumps into the man’s touch, large hands catching his forelegs and cushioning him from the hard ground. The human’s fingers stroke over the patch of fur on his head, pressing to the bare skin under his jaw where his ruff should be. Nothing is familiar, his body strange and wrong. The wolf curls closer to the man, who murmurs, “John” before dropping his face against the wolf’s bent head. 

_Mate_ , the wolf thinks, tension seeping from his body. Beneath the thought is another, both the same and different.

_Sherlock._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not pleased with this chapter, but here it is.

The man coaxes him out of the enclosure, leading him down a set of ledges that the wolf navigates with difficulty on his uncomfortably wrong limbs. When he slips, tumbling into a heap at the bottom, the man respects his shocked snarl, keeping his distance while the wolf works to get his uncooperative feet back under him. 

“John, why don’t you just stand up?” 

The wolf stares at the human in confusion. Can't the man see he already _is_ standing? Despite the dysfunction of his limbs, the wolf does his best to follow the man into a different space, this one vaguely familiar. Even with dulled senses, he can smell the man in here, alongside his own new, weird smell. He identifies the hanging haze of their coupling and shared releases, the scents mixed and heavy, caught in the fibres of the rug.

Crawling on his belly over the rug, the wolf inhales. He works his cheeks against the material, rubbing despite the burn against his hairless skin before flipping onto his back. Rolling, he imprints his scent deeper, marking his territory over the smell of his mate. 

When he looks up, the man is standing over him, arms folded. 

“I swear to God, if you pee on that rug, I’m locking you outside.” 

The wolf barks. What emerges from his mouth is, “Fuck you,” and the man sighs. 

“Wonderful. I’m so glad you can still swear at me.” 

Tossing his head back, the wolf rolls to his feet and shuffles awkwardly toward the man, stiff-legged and wary. Sherlock, the man, stares down at him. His body language is too unfamiliar for the wolf to understand. Dropping his belly to the floor, the wolf narrows his eyes and attempts another yip, voicing a garbled sound of high-pitched annoyance. The man winces and covers his ears. 

“Alright, John, alright!” Lowering his hands, Sherlock drops them on his hips, studying the wolf with lowered brows. The wolf squints back at him, trying to read the expressions on his face and comes up empty. Settling onto his haunches, he licks his lips and wonders what happened to his tail and why his ears are wrong. Without them, he feels oddly muted, unable to communicate outside of the strange sounds this unfamiliar mouth makes. 

_Not unfamiliar,_ says the voice beneath his thoughts. _Different._

The wolf snuffles and sneezes, glancing back at the carpet, tempted to wriggle his scent deeper into the fibres. Sherlock moves closer. The wolf’s back straightens, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest, making the man pauses.

“John, stop.” Sherlock takes another cautious step closer. The wolf’s eyes narrow, holding his ground. “Just...trust me.” When the man reaches out, bending slowly, the wolf allows his fingers to brush through the hair on his head. A hesitant smile curls the man’s lips back. Tensing, the wolf relaxes as the voice in his head soothes, _safe. Not a threat._

Whining, he lets the man guide him away from the carpet, toward a narrow space with two openings. Body rocking with the ungainly motion of his strange legs, he follows the human into a room that smells faintly of the same basic, bitter scent on Sherlock’s skin. There is a ledge jutting out from the wall. When the wolf sets his forelegs against it, the surface is cold, hard and slippery, containing a small basin. The wolf, shoving his nose against the material, snorts and growls.

Behind him, Sherlock moves close enough for his body heat to imprint on the wolf’s skin, making his head jerk up and back with teeth bared. A high bark emerges as, “Watch it!” and Sherlock backs away. 

“John, you need to shower.” 

Hunkering beside him, the man holds out his hands, palms up and empty in an offering. The wolf drops his face-first to one palm, then the other, inhaling with deep, huffing breaths. Even with his senses muted, he finds nothing threatening nor alarming in the man’s smell. There is familiarity and comfort, the presence at the back of his head feeling content with the input. The wolf’s backend wiggles, a pathetic replacement for the missing tail, and licks one of the hands with a slow swipe of his tongue.

The man shivers and sucks in a breath, his eyes slipping shut. He exhales slowly, eyes opening with a series of blinks, the wolf watching intently. 

_Mate_ , he thinks, the other presence correcting, _Sherlock._

******

The wolf does not like the thing the man calls ‘shower.’ 

Water pours down on him, first freezing cold then too hot, the bare skin of his form too reactive to the temperature. Wild, the wolf repeatedly forces the man to wrestle him back into the basin. Snarling and kicking, he wishes for his claws and sturdy legs instead of the ineffective, blunt appendages that do little damage. The wolf snaps his teeth in front of his mate’s face, warning him for the umpteenth time to stop pushing him back under the falling water, but Sherlock ignores him, dumping a flowery-smelling substance over his head. 

Enraged, the wolf flails back and tries to howl, eyes rolling in his head, lips pulled back over teeth that leave imprints and bruises on Sherlock's arms and hands. Only once does he manage to break skin, making the man shout and shove him back under the spray. Filled with fury at being challenged by his mate, the wolf finally turns his back, ignoring the human, low growls rumbling deep in his chest every time the man touches him. 

The water shuts off. Head lifting, the wolf surges around and fixes his teeth on Sherlock’s arm when it reaches for him. Going stiff and still, the man narrows his eyes on him. 

“John,” he says slowly. “What are you doing?” 

A low, thready growl murmurs past the wolf’s lips, vibrating over the skin caught between his teeth. He tightens his jaw, furious at the inadequate strength of his bite, the man’s brows dropping in a wince. 

Staring at him, the man closes his eyes for a brief second before opening them once more, face grim. To the wolf’s shock, the man’s eyes dart away before he lowers his head, chin dropping to his chest. After he makes himself into something smaller, submission written in every line of his body, the wolf’s clenching jaws soften slightly. Tugging at the man’s arm, he voices another growl, this one higher in pitch, a yipping command. 

Sherlock breathes a sigh and grimaces before tilting forward and to the side, hunched up and showing his stomach. Nude, his coverings stripped away after the wolf splashed water over his clothing, the man’s softened, unthreatening sex rests against the curve of his thigh. 

Releasing his hold on the arm, the wolf surges over the side of the basin to pin the man, caging him between stiff legs. Voicing a grunt, he noses into the man’s neck, scraping the skin with teeth and reddening the pale flesh, working his way down the body. His chin nudges the man’s sex, followed by nose then tongue, lapping up taste and scent. The man squirms and tries to shift away, but the wolf plants a foreleg on his hip, curling the strange fingers around muscle to hold him in place, head tilting up in warning. Sherlock falls still and lets his head tip back, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. 

Nuzzling against the curve of his inner thigh again, satisfied by his continued claim, the wolf moves back up the body beneath him. He noses back against the dip of Sherlock’s neck, low growls and grunts murmuring from his throat. The wolf staring hard into his face, Sherlock rolls his head to the side, watching the wolf from the corner of his eyes. The gesture screams submission, making the wolf pant out a happy whine.

Sherlock turns his head slowly back toward him and, heaving another loud sigh, bends forward to lick the wolf’s nose in acquiescence. Pleased, the wolf backs off and shakes his head, dispelling droplets of water. His smell is strange and masked by whatever the man scrubbed over his body. Lunging forward, backend raised playfully, he shoves his face against the man’s bare stomach, rubbing his lips and cheeks over damp skin. Satisfied with grinding his scent back onto his mate, the wolf stalks stiff-legged off of him, settling back on his haunches and tilting his head in curiousity. 

Looking down at him, Sherlock’s brow furrows.

“I really hate you for this, because now I have to phone Mycroft.”

Unaware of what a 'Mycroft' is, but hearing the voice in his head mutter, _threat_ , the wolf drops low and shows his teeth in a harsh snarl. Hiding a smile, Sherlock nods.

“Yeah, I’m not happy about it either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter in John's POV before we switch back to Sherlock. if this all works out as I hope, my plan is 6 chapters in Sherlock's POV, followed by another 6 in John's to the end. 
> 
> but we'll see what happens, as I'm writing this on the fly.


	12. Chapter 12

The wolf hears the trespasser before Sherlock does. His head lifts, eyes narrowing as he watches the door. On the sofa beside Sherlock, he uncurls himself, knocking the man’s caressing hand off his stomach to stare toward the approaching sound of footsteps. Sherlock forced some kind of clothing on him, a loose robe, and the wolf shrugs against the covering, wishing for his more familiar, powerful form. 

“Shh, John, it’s fine,” the man pauses. Tilting his head, he adds, “I mean, it’s Mycroft, so not really. But he’s not a threat.”

The wolf holds his ground, upper lip rolling back over his teeth. The man is wrong. Whatever approaches is a definite threat, the suspicion growing solid when the door swings open and another man steps through. His eyes flicker over the room before coming to rest on the wolf, hunched low as he stalks forward to crouch over Sherlock’s lap. The man in the doorway stares at them both, his posture a clear threat.

A snarl rips from the wolf, legs bending to launch him forward, jaws parted with the urge to rip, attack, kill. Sherlock’s arms lock around his middle, holding him in place. Howling, the wolf jerks around to bite at his shoulder, closing his teeth in fabric. Amid the struggle, the trespasser takes advantage of the distraction to step further into the room, mouth tight and drawn down at the corners. Releasing Sherlock’s arm, the wolf lunges out of his hold and postures aggressively, forelegs planted on the couch arm, head jerked up and outward with a rumbling challenge.

“Brother mine,” the man drawls, his words slow and controlled, seemingly unflappable in the face of the wolf’s fierce protests. “What have you gotten yourself involved in?” 

Still half-trapped beneath him, Sherlock settles his hands on the wolf’s back, the touch soothing. “Something is wrong, Mycroft.” The wolf’s head jerks at the words, turning narrowed eyes to his mate. 

The man at the door—Mycroft—taps a hand against his thigh, drawing the wolf’s attention back to him. 

“I’m well aware,” he replies, studying the wolf’s eyes as they fix on his face. “Our good doctor doesn’t seem to be quite himself at the moment, does he?” A rivulet of saliva trickles over the wolf’s lips. Grimacing, Sherlock wipes it away with his sleeve.

“Obviously,” he snaps, tension turning his body stiff. “Help him.” 

Watching the wolf, who stares back unblinkingly, Mycroft sighs, “What makes you think I have the capability?” His head tilts, chin jutting out, making the wolf gnash his teeth in response. “Or that I would do so if I did?” 

With a sudden push, Sherlock moves out from under the wolf, drawing a shocked whine from the wolf’s mouth at his daring. Before he can regain control of his mate, Sherlock strides forward, crowding into Mycroft’s space with his eyes narrowed. 

“You can help him," he hisses, fingers folding into fists. "And you will.” His tone is low and dangerous, prompting the wolf to jump to the floor and pace. His body feels different, buzzing with electric currents of energy, the patch of hair on his head standing at attention. 

Mycroft’s eyes follow the wolf's movements over Sherlock’s shoulder. “I may not be able to do anything, Sherlock,” he says softly. Sherlock’s back straightens, arms rigid. 

“I don’t believe that.” 

Turning a sorrowful look to his brother, Mycroft offers a small, empty smile. “No,” he says. “You don’t, do you?” He glances over Sherlock’s body, taking in the visible markings of nails and teeth darkening the pale skin. “Oh, Sherlock. When will you learn that caring is not an advantage?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, voicing a shout instead when Mycroft grabs his arm hard, fingers pressing into skin darkened by the imprint of teeth. The noise Sherlock makes is one of shock and fury, the sound of it piercing through the wolf’s confused pacing like a bullet. It awakens a memory of sand and the smell of blood, dead men, rattling noise. 

Fear, pain, death. 

The wolf’s body twitches, a jolt rippling through his limbs. Sherlock claws at his brother, Mycroft wincing.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” 

Throwing his head back, the wolf howls, bones cracking and skin erupting into fur. The change feels different, limbs bending before reverting, the agony drawn out and driving him to the floor. 

“John? John!” Sherlock’s voice reaches him from far-away, vision tunnelling into a pinhole as his skull breaks down and reforms. A low whining fills the room, sick, anguished, and the wolf seizes, curling tight in on itself as hands and feet form into paws, long nails clawing gouges in the floor. 

Locked in the transformation, he doesn’t hear the others until too late. One second, Sherlock is furious, alternating between shouting at his brother and calling for John, the next, there are men in gear flooding into the room from the stairwell. Their boots are heavy, drumming echoes against the wooden floor, the vibrations echoing in the wolf’s head and sensitive ears. Subdued, exhausted by the change, the wolf raises his head with a pitiful whine. Arms now gripped by two strange men, Sherlock spits toward his brother and flails, kicking out and failing to free himself.

“Don’t hurt him,” he shouts, slamming an elbow backward into hard body armour. “Mycroft, don’t hurt him!”

Struggling to his feet, strength slowly returning to his once-more familiar form, the wolf whines, clawing at the carpet. 

_Danger,_ the voice tells him in his head, different from before but the same, and much too late. 

Something slams into his side, a sharp prick that makes his ears flick back, a snarl edging toward an inhuman shriek as another follows. His steps falter, massive paws stuttering, tangling and bringing him down. Eyes rolling wide, the wolf’s tongue lolls out as he noses at his side and the objects embedded there. Hard, sharp, they disappear into his fur, puncturing skin beneath and making him whine. 

Shoes appear beside him, prompting a half-hearted, snarling protest that dies quickly. Looking up at the man called Mycroft, standing over him with remorse in his face, the wolf kicks his feet but fails to rise. 

“So sorry, Doctor Watson,” the man tells him. To the wolf’s surprise, Mycroft bends and drops a hand against his heaving side. “Nothing personal.” 

Huffing, whining, the wolf looks away, searching over unfamiliar faces to find that of his mate. With his heightened senses, he smells him with ease, a mix of his own scent and that of the man himself. He finds Sherlock. Making eye contact, there is something wild looking back at him, a feral echo of his own bewildered rage.

The last thing he sees before everything fades is Sherlock, hanging loosely from the grip of those restraining him, mouthing something over and over.

_John._

**_-END OF PART TWO-_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so ends part two. the next chapter will be the start of part three and back to Sherlock's POV.


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft’s words wash over him with so much white noise. In Sherlock’s mind, he is tuned out and irrelevant next to the images on the television screens lining the wall. The picture shows a cage, a heavy structure of metal bars enclosing a small, four-legged form. A form that lays still, curled in on itself. 

Sherlock’s fingers tense, nails digging hard into his palms. The brief flare of pain draws him back into his body, to the faint, lingering ache and the marks of John’s teeth and hands on his skin. 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice is sharp. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes focus and drift, scanning over the screens before settling on Mycroft. He feels dull and empty. “I heard you.” Tight-lipped, he unfurls his fingers, laying his hands palm-down on the table between them. “A virus, of sorts. Originating from some top-secret military lab in the countryside of Dartmoor.” His vision fades, growing briefly dim before things haze back into definition. “My fault, you said. My fault for wandering into the moors, bringing John in contact with that... _thing.”_

Lips pursed, Mycroft folds his hands together against the edge of the table, watching Sherlock closely. “Brother dear,” he begins, endlessly patronizing. Sherlock grinds his teeth, wishing he was the wolf instead of John, free to rip out his brother’s throat. Mycroft drones on, and Sherlock focuses on his breathing. “You call your attacker a ‘thing,’ yet fail to identify John as one and the same.” Mycroft’s brows rise, his lips a thin, tight line. “It seems you really have allowed sentiment to blind you.”

Sherlock’s hand smacks against the tabletop, startling them both. “John is _not_ the same. Not even close. He is...he’s…” Sherlock’s hands clench and release helplessly as he strains, reaching for the words. “John Watson is the bravest, most honourable man I know. If what has happened to him is my fault, then I accept that blame. But,” his pale eyes dart to Mycroft’s face and darken, “you will _not_ compare John to that mad beast on the moors. Do you hear me, Mycroft? I won’t have it. I will _not have it._ Is that clear?”

His expression bland and disinterested, Mycroft sighs, “Crystal.” 

Sherlock nods, turning back to the monitors, hands steepled beneath his chin. “Now, get out.” 

A scowl twists Mycroft’s features. “Excuse me? Are you ordering me out of my own office?” 

Not bothering to turn around, Sherlock narrows his eyes at the image of John in his wolf form, twitching suddenly within the cage. “I know you heard me, don’t make me repeat myself.” Tilting his head, he shoots Mycroft a hard look, pale eyes flashing with something dark and steely. “Either tell me you know how to help him or get out of my sight.” Mycroft’s scowl deepens. When he doesn't reply, Sherlock’s lip curls. “Thought not.” 

His brother sighs and turns on his heel before stalking out, leaving Sherlock to consider the screens. Fingers pressed to his temples, he works at the tension in his skull, indenting fingerprints and frustration into the flesh. 

“Come on, John,” he mutters, staring at the brown-and-gold pixels that make up the image of John Watson. The wolf’s hind legs kick and twitch, making Sherlock wince at the low whine that issues forth from the speakers, direct feedback from the observation room. 

He pushes away the emotional responses of his mind. Sentiment won’t help either of them now, Mycroft is right in that regard. Here, caring is not an advantage. Just like the old woman he couldn’t save from Moriarty’s explosives, caring will not make this any easier. 

It is only a distraction.

Settling in the chair, Sherlock wipes the concern away. He shoves it back, locking it behind a door in his Mind Palace and pacing through the imagined halls, searching, tearing at his hair in reality because there is nothing there, nothing to help. 

Nothing. 

His eyes flash open, breath coming hard and fast. The door in his head won’t stay shut, and he grits his teeth around the urge to shout his frustration, his utter helplessness. 

Looking at the monitors again, he inhales slowly, shakily. Sherlock works his fingers back against his temples, eyes clenched shut. 

The facts. There’s always the facts, hard, concrete evidence and knowledge. 

Hands spread, fingers twitching, Sherlock lays out what he knows, slow and methodical. This is his way, his system, his methods. John knows his methods, yet still remains oblivious to so much. But he is not John, he is Sherlock Holmes. This is what he _does_. 

This time, the door stays shut. All his muddled, distracting sentiment is shoved back and away as his fingers work in the air, picking apart problems and piecing together answers.

The facts: John is a werewolf. Sherlock has known since the moment they met. Up until recently, John had no issue controlling his other form, aside from new moon-fatigue, and restless frustration before the transformation. Now, there is a divergence. John is no longer in control, seemingly confused about which form he takes, acting like the wolf in human form, unable to direct his changes. 

The variables: everything was fine until the case in the countryside. John has been on-edge since returning, right until Sherlock found him transformed and unwell on the sitting room floor after John stormed off. 

Mitigating factors include a change in their relationship. Following the appearance of John’s sudden and unexpected wolf form in their flat, they were intimate. Afterward, John’s reaction had been intense. Visceral, wild. He had fled to his room, transforming mid-run, barring Sherlock entry. By the time Sherlock picked the lock and entered, John was human again, but only in body, his mind still that of the wolf. 

Eyes darting open, Sherlock stares into the middle ground, vision unfocused. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he draws out the small tuft of black fur, smoothing it between his fingers. Soft and coarse all at once, with thick guard hairs caught between silky fur. Despite the time spent in his pocket, it still smells like the black wolf, oily, rank and putrid. 

Sherlock lifts the sample to his nose and inhales, wincing at the sharp reek of decay. 

In the observation room, John sits up in his cage. The movement pulls Sherlock’s attention to the screens, watching John lurch to his feet, tilt and steady himself. Pacing to the centre of the enclosure, the wolf lifts its head and howls. The sound is low, long and mournful, rippling goosebumps over Sherlock’s skin despite the heavy coat settled over his shoulders. 

As Sherlock looks back at the tuft of fur in his hand, John voices another howl, the sound reverberating through the speakers and into his chest.


	14. Chapter 14

“I need to see a log of every experiment conducted in Baskerville over the past five years.” 

Sherlock’s demand makes Mycroft look up from a pile of papers, brows rising. “Excuse me?”

His face darkening, Sherlock drops his palms hard onto the tabletop in front of his brother. “The records, Mycroft! I need them. I need to know what has been done there, what _is_ being done there.” 

Settling back in his chair, Mycroft lays the papers down, hands folded together in his lap. His expression is careful and controlled, revealing nothing beyond polite attention. “There are none,” he says, and Sherlock’s body twitches, head jerking upward. “Baskerville is a top-secret military facility, exempt from government interference.” He spreads his hands in an apologetic facade. “I’m sorry, but I have nothing to give you.” 

Sherlock’s jaw clenches, the tendons standing out against the skin of his neck. “I don’t believe you.”

Mycroft smiles, a slight twitch of the lips. “I know you don’t, brother mine. But it’s the truth.” 

“Not good enough!” Sherlock whirls, shoving at a wheeled chair, sending it across the small space before turning back to his brother. “I want to talk to the scientists. Anyone who has worked there in the past five years. Make it happen.” 

Mycroft stares at him, eyes narrowed. Slowly, he leans forward and steeples his hands together. “I understand that you are upset, Sherlock. But, for God’s sake, pull yourself together!” the words hiss out, humming with controlled fury. “Get a hold of yourself, or I will send you away.” 

Sherlock stills. “Pardon me?” 

“You heard me perfectly well.” 

Upper lip curling back, Sherlock stalks toward his brother, skirting around the desk between them to grip the armrests of Mycroft’s chair. “I’d love to see you try, Mycroft,” he breathes, eyes dark and hard. “I think you will find it surprisingly difficult.” 

Mycroft’s eyes fix on his face, calculating. “I see you believe your own words, Sherlock, but you forget—I am the one with any real power.” 

Face tensed into a sneer, Sherlock’s teeth gleam in the fluorescent lighting. “Read my lips, Mycroft, and know that _I do not care.”_ His hands tighten on the chair, drawing it closer, their faces inches apart. “I am not a little kid anymore, _brother mine_ ,” he spits, twisting the words into a sardonic mockery. “I will not be controlled anymore. Believe me when I say that you. Do not. Want to test me.” Enunciating each syllable through his teeth, Sherlock feints forward. Mycroft flinches before regaining his composure, eyes flashing with anger as Sherlock releases the chair and steps away, hands stiff at his sides. 

“Get me access,” he snaps, turning on his heel and striding for the door. “I don’t care whose soul you have to sell, just do it.” 

The door slams shut behind him with a satisfying bang. 

******

If Mycroft won’t help him, then Sherlock will help himself.

The drive from the train station to Baskerville passes in a blur, desolate moors stretching out past the windows. The endless, wild landscape mirrors the panicked loneliness in his own chest, and the sound of John’s howls, still echoing in his ears. 

He can’t get the sound of it out of his head. 

As the rental vehicle, a large, black Land Rover, rumbles up to the gates of the compound, armed men appear, standing at attention. Briefly, Sherlock wonders if Mycroft might have called ahead, warned Baskerville of his meddling. But they wave him forward, miming for him to roll down the window.

“Sir, are you aware you are in restricted military territory?” The soldier is fit and stout, a solid wall of straight-spine and muscle, topped off with an automatic rifle held against his chest. “Entry is strictly prohibited to non-essential personnel without proper clearance.” 

“I am well aware, soldier,” Sherlock drawls. He flicks an ID card toward the man, taken from Mycroft’s pocket, fixing him with a hard, flint-eyed glare. “I think you’ll find my clearance is in order.” 

The man offers a dubious look but takes the card, turning to offer it to another soldier in a booth connected to the shut gates. As he runs the card through a computer system, the soldier next to the vehicle stares straight ahead, just past Sherlock’s face. Watching him, Sherlock looks him over with narrowed eyes, taking in the evidence of his life.

_New father. Stress with his partner. A gay couple, interesting. He never wanted kids, his partner did. Does. The adoption of a toddler has him on edge._

When the soldier hands back the card with a stiff nod, Sherlock offers a smirk. “Congratulations on parenthood, Private. It doesn’t suit you at all.” 

The soldier shoots him a shocked look before turning away to wave another armed man forward. This one has a dog with him, held tight to his side on a heavy leash. The dog approaches, sniffing over the vehicle for weapons, bombs, drugs, for things Sherlock cannot begin to imagine. It circles the Land Rover, stuffing its tapered nose deep into the guts of the rental before freezing next to the open window on the driver’s side. Catching Sherlock’s scent, the dog drops low and whines, ears flicking back. To Sherlock’s surprise, its tail tucks tight between its legs, an obvious sign of submission. 

No matter what the handler tries, the dog balks and will not move forward. Finally, after exchanging a confused look with the first soldier, the man backs away, pulling the dog with him. The animal goes, whining and whimpering before rolling onto its back to present its stomach. 

Looking at it, Sherlock feels a sick sense of dread fall into the pit of his stomach. 

“You may precede, Mister Holmes.” 

The Private’s voice breaks into his thoughts, pushing aside the foreboding feeling for the moment. Shaking his head, Sherlock shoves the reaction back behind the same door he locked away his concerns for John. He affects a sneer and shoots the soldier a sharp look.

“Peachy.” Turning forward, he starts the Land Rover and crawls forward as the gates rattle open, making room for the vehicle. When they close behind him again with a loud crack, Sherlock tries not to feel trapped.

******

Baskerville is a frustratingly maze-like facility. After turning down yet another hallway that looks identical to the last, Sherlock is vibrating with furious energy. He’s been here nearly an hour with nothing to show for it.

There is a clock ticking in his head, echoing from behind the closed door in his Mind Palace, counting down endless seconds. Even though Sherlock has no idea what the countdown is moving towards, or how long he has, he cannot shake the sick feeling that he is running out of time. _John_ is running out of time.

Moving through the facility, Sherlock dips his fingers into his pocket. He rubs the dark tuft of fur between his fingers, a slick, oily texture against his fingertips, seeping into his skin. Idly, he wonders if the sniffer dog’s earlier reaction had been to the fur, or to any lingering scent of John on Sherlock’s body. 

He finds himself wishing it to be the latter, while something deep in his chest tells him it’s likely the former. 

******

Doctor Stapleton is useless. Bioluminescent genes spliced into rabbits? Idiotic. Pointless. She says, ‘why not?’ and Sherlock struggles with the urge to throttle her. Why not? Because it serves nothing. Even as the thought passes through his head, Sherlock wonders when he lost his scientific curiousity, his own ‘just because.’ Before John? After? 

The memory of John’s desolate howl, ringing through steel bars and tinny speakers, drives the wondering away. Whatever the answer, it doesn’t matter anymore. Only John matters. 

Sherlock tries not to think about when _that_ became a fact.

******

Doctor Frankland is a bumbling idiot. 

Major Barrymore is a pain in Sherlock’s ass. 

Each and every person he encounters makes him want to claw his own skin off and use his nails to mark their face, arms, and eyes. 

More and more, he wishes for the wolf himself and fails to find the ‘not good’ part of that wish. If it’s good enough for John, it’s certainly good enough for him.

When he storms out of the facility, Barrymore hounds his heels with a roaring voice. Mycroft’s security clearance is useless, and Sherlock is cursing the whole lot of them.

Major Barrymore’s eyes follow him as he swings up into the Land Rover and shouts abuse at the soldiers at the gate until they let him out. Sherlock launches the vehicle back onto the gravel roads, snarling and spouting harsh deductions that make everyone in his vicinity wince and break facade.

As he drives, his hands shake on the steering wheel. _Sentiment_ , he thinks, indulging a wave of helplessness that threatens to drown him until he shoves the response back behind the closed door in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a small, lame update, but it's an update. I've started the last semester of my degree, so updates and writing are gonna be slowing down for a while.


	15. Chapter 15

The second he pushes through the doors into the laboratory wing, Sherlock hears it. The sound rips open the door in his Mind Palace, spilling out the frightful, helpless sentiment he has been trying to repress. It all comes rushing out, nearly brings him to his knees, hands scrabbling at the wall to stay upright. When the sound comes again, rising and falling, discordant, desperate, he snaps out of the shock rooting him in place, forcing his legs into a sprint, boots slipping on the slick floor. 

Outside the lab, the noise is interminable. It is a wall of terror and pain that has Sherlock banging on the laboratory doors. Finding them locked, he snarls, moving down the hall to the viewing room. 

He bursts inside, drawing the attention of his brother away from the wall of screens. Mycroft turns an impassive face on his brother, one eyebrow raised. 

“Do settle down, Sherlock,” he says. The idle command does little to stop Sherlock from striding forward and grabbing the front of Mycroft's ridiculous three-piece-suit.

“What are you doing to him?” His fists tighten, pressing wrinkles into the expensive fabric. “Whatever it is, stop it. Now.”

Mycroft gestures to the screens, his calm unshakeable. His placid expression is hateful, and Sherlock clenches his teeth hard enough that a muscle in his jaw cracks. Turning to the display, his hands, still gripping the front of Mycroft’s suit jacket, go slack with shock.

On the monitors, writhing on the floor of his cage, is John. Two men in lab coats stand outside the bars, watching as the figure on the ground seizes. There is something strange about the shape inside the cage and Sherlock squints. Grabbing the microphone, he presses the broadcast button and roars, “Move! Get out of the way!” 

The scientists inside the lab jump but do as he orders, shifting aside. With the view no longer obstructed, Sherlock uses the video controls to zoom in with the high-definition cameras, bringing the scene into clarity. His breathing stops, air catching in his throat, making him choke and gag as he realizes why John looks _wrong._

Neither wolf nor man, something caught between, John’s body shakes through rapid changes. First half-wolf, then half-man, John turned into some kind of monstrosity with paws for feet. Hands at the ends of canine legs, twitching human eyes over a snout that melts into teeth, fangs, and peeling lips. Back and forth, his form shifts into something hinting at the lupine, something almost human, something utterly incomprehensible. 

Sherlock backs away from the monitors, helpless to look elsewhere. Still watching the screens, he swallows, asks, “What have you done?” His eyes finally shift. They flicker to Mycroft’s face before snapping back to the howling, snarling, sobbing form, the clawing mess on the floor. “Mycroft, what _did you do?”_

Mycroft folds his hands together at his back, watching his brother calmly. “You asked for answers. I found them for you.”

I don’t…” Sherlock shakes his head. Suddenly sick to his stomach, he fights the urge to gag. “How is this helping? How could—” Fury rises in his chest, pushing aside his nausea. “How does hurting him achieve anything? How, exactly, does this _help?”_

Rocking back on his heels, Mycroft studies the screens with curious eyes. In the lab, John continues to shudder and shriek, fur bursting out over his skin, receding, returning in mangy patches over his naked body. A tail appears, disappears, ears grow half-way toward the top of his skull and crumple. Sherlock forces himself to watch, biting his bottom lip hard enough to break the skin. Blood trickles into his mouth as Mycroft answers his questions with infuriating restraint.

“It proves my theory.” Tapping a finger to the audio controls, his brother mutes the endless rise and fall of John’s pained cries. He crosses to Sherlock, reaching out to grip his shoulders. Sherlock tries to shake him off, but his shock is immense, and Mycroft curls his fingers into flesh and bone. “The wolf and John have merged. Become one. His mind and body can no longer tell his two forms apart.” He gestures to the screen, drawing Sherlock’s eyes back to the images. “You told me John Watson was nothing like the wolf on the moors. Now, Sherlock, I ask you— _beg you_ to see that is not true. John Watson is no more man than you are a fish.”

Sherlock rips his eyes from the screens again, fixing onto his brother’s face with disbelief. “Excuse me?” 

Mycroft’s expression goes flat. “John is no longer a man who turns into a wolf, Sherlock. He _is_ the wolf, driven mad by the virus he picked up from the black wolf you encountered in Dartmoor.” With little resistance from his brother, he reaches into the pocket of Sherlock’s jacket. When his hand reappears, the tuft of black fur is pinched between thumb and index finger. “You meddled in matters you shouldn’t have, Sherlock.” His eyes darken, mouth flattening into a thin, hard line. “This is your penance.” 

******

Once more seated across from his brother in Mycroft’s stark, bunker-style office, Sherlock resists the urge to destroy the forced neatness of the organized files on the desk between them. Settling back into the hard-backed chair, he folds his hands into a tight knot in his lap.

“Tell me everything.” His foot jiggles with restless energy. “And don’t give me any of that ‘it’s classified’ crap. I’ll know if you lie.” 

Mycroft sighs, rolling his eyes. “Always so dramatic, Sherlock.” Catching the feral flash of his younger brother’s teeth, he huffs. “Very well.” Leaning forward, Mycroft sets his hands on the desk and narrows his eyes. “First, tell me what you’ve already learned.”

Sherlock’s reply is bitten out through a clenched jaw. “Stop playing games, Mycroft.”

“You’ve always said you were smarter,” Mycroft retorts, brows rising, “This is your chance to prove it.”

Sherlock swallows the urge to snarl and rises to his feet, pacing the cold space with jerky, sharp movements. “You already mentioned the virus and Baskerville. When I went, I found nothing of consequence. Oh, also,” turning, he tosses the stolen ID card onto Mycroft’s desk. Mycroft sniffs imperiously but reaches out to take it without comment, gesturing for Sherlock to continue. Resuming his restless pacing, he does so. 

“The black wolf was mad, clearly. Driven insane. I could…” he pauses, fingers flexing slowly in and out from his palms, “Smell it. At first, I thought it was part of the wolf itself. A normal smell, part of the werewolf condition. Rotting meat, feral, putrid. However, when John appeared in his own wolf form, it was different. He didn’t—doesn’t—smell like that.” Sherlock frowns, turning to look at his brother. “Does he?”

Mycroft doesn’t reply, his silence answer enough. Sherlock’s face tightens.

“I see.” He pivots on his heel, marking a path from the door to the desk and back. “So the virus is contagious, but only to lycanthropes? Or all canine-like creatures?” His eyes fall on the tuft of fur, set aside on Mycroft’s desk. “The sniffer dog at Baskerville reacted to me. At the time, I wondered if it was because of the fur, or if it smelled John’s wolf on me.” Sherlock's gaze drifts, meeting Mycroft’s flat stare. “You know, don’t you?”

His brother watches him carefully as if weighing the benefit of silence over speaking. Finally, he settles back in his chair with a slow nod. 

“You’ve managed to stumble upon something much larger than your usual little cases, brother mine.” Sherlock pulls a face at the apparent insult but doesn’t interrupt. “Yes, the virus can infect more than just werewolves. But it is not nearly as harmful to dogs or regular wolves, as they do not share a mind with a separate form.” Mycroft frowns, studying his fingernails. It is a facade, one Sherlock knows well, drilled into his own repertoire of emotional repression. His eyes narrow.

“And?”

Mycroft’s eyes flicker to his face. “There are things in this world...things you can only begin to imagine, Sherlock. Not all fairy tales are fantasy. I’m sure you understand this, knowing what John is.” At Sherlock’s tense nod, Mycroft offers a small, humourless smile. “Werewolves are one such creature, a tale of horror that exists in reality. How much do you know about lycanthropes?”

Sherlock frowns, studying his hands. “I know they are mostly extinct. That the wolves in Afghanistan are some of the last real packs of lycanthropes, most of them too feral to change back to their human forms.” His eyes drift to Mycroft’s face, his brother’s slight nod encouraging him to continue. “I know John must have hidden his bite. Otherwise, I doubt the military would have released him back into civilian life. I know there were others before, but there haven’t been documented cases of lycanthropy since the 80s. I...was unable to identify what happened to the last wolf.” He admits the last with reluctance, frustrated at his own lack of knowledge.

His face impassive, Mycroft lays his hands over one another on the desk. “Most of what you’ve said is true. Some are planted half-truths. Yes, the packs in Afghanistan do exist—John is a testament to that. He is also not the first to be bitten, of course, hence the stories about wolves in the mountains. Thanks to government and military propaganda, many believe the tales to be superstitions, believed only by locals and gullible soldiers deployed in a foreign country.” 

“Others have been bitten,” Sherlock says, a statement. Mycroft nods.

“Yes. Not a large number, but enough to confirm that the myths are, in fact, true.” He hesitates, carefully considering his next words. “John is not the first British soldier to have been bitten.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen before narrowing. “What happened to the others?”

Mycroft’s expression turns stern, lips drawn into a thin, hard line as his fingers curl into loose fists. “You can’t figure that out for yourself?” His voice lowers. “Sherlock, when I tell you that John Watson is a monster, I do not say it to be cruel. It's still unclear how he managed to conceal his bite, but believe me when I say that, had it been known, he never would have been sent back to London.”

“He would have been killed,” Sherlock says, tone dull. 

“Yes. There is no known cure for lycanthropy, and no way to really manage it. The virus…” Mycroft gestures, hands grasping at empty air, searching for the words. “The virus the black wolf carried was created to neutralize lycanthropes. Meant to disrupt the mental control of those infected, making them easier to detain. Its use has become rare. Cases of lycanthropy have been few and far between since the 80s, after a massive outbreak in the late 70s. Containment was...complicated." Mycroft grimaces as if personally offended by the topic. "You said there has not been a documented case since the 80s, and you are not wrong. I’m sure you had to dig deep to find such information, using levels of clearance many do not have.” Leaning forward, Mycroft fixes his brother with a hard look. “That documented werewolf was captured by our government and subjected to tests until we were able to develop the virus. Once we neutralized the others, it was destroyed.”

Sherlock’s upper lip curls back. “Just as you would destroy John.”

“Yes. Of course.” Mycroft shrugs. He relaxes back into the chair, straightening small creases from his suit. “It is protocol.” 

“Fuck your protocol,” Sherlock hisses, slamming his palms against the desktop. “If that is your procedure, what was the black wolf doing on the moors? _Where_ did it come from?" His face twists with frustration. "You’ve only offered more questions, Mycroft, and you still haven’t told me what you’ve done to John.” 

“Wolfsbane.” 

The simple response makes Sherlock pause, his mercurial eyes narrowing. “Wolfsbane?” he repeats slowly, watching his brother’s face for deception. 

“Yes.” Mycroft inclines his head, holding Sherlock's hard stare. “Aconite, a plant poisonous to many predator animals, including wolves. And, by extension, lycanthropes.”

“I _know_ what wolfsbane is,” Sherlock snarls, clenching his hands into fists. He resumes his restless pacing, tense, unspent frustration rumbling under his skin as prickling energy. “Explain to me what you did to John.”

“We injected John with a reduced form. Not enough to kill him, but enough to force his body into a stress reaction.” Mycroft shrugs, frustratingly at ease. Looking at him, Sherlock fights the urge to put a fist through that placid, unperturbed face. 

“Why?” he bites out, struggling with his anger.

“We hoped it would force him back into human form. However, as I anticipated, he is unable to settle on a form because of the merge between his wolf and human minds. As a result, he is caught between half-shifts.” Another shrug, almost apologetic. "The virus has done its job. He is no longer able to control the change." 

Despite the rising horror in his chest, Sherlock sneers. "I'll be the judge of that." He stops beside the desk, staring down at his brother. “How do we help him?”

Mycroft meets his eyes steadily, refusing to be intimidated. “I’m not certain that we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, a somewhat substantial update.


	16. Chapter 16

The cigarette between his fingers dips in time with his tapping foot, flicking ash from the end, a grey trail of particles that drifts from his hand to the floor. A lab tech in the far corner shoots him a look, and Sherlock sneers in response, eyes narrowed until the man turns away with a sigh. In front of him, the cage is a looming structure of cold steel, keeping him separate from the collapsed form inside. 

John lays still and silent, returned to his wolf shape by a powerful triple-dose of sedatives. Remembering how John thrashed and fought against the injections, Sherlock shivers. He draws hard on the cigarette, sucking smoke deep into his lungs and swallowing back the urge to cough. 

Mycroft’s words ring in his head, repeating, making his hands shake. Studying the limp wolf inside the cage, Sherlock refuses to believe the suggestion that John is beyond his help. Not now, when something he never knew he wanted is finally possible. Not after tasting how it felt to be wanted, desired, taken, laid claim to. 

There is so much more to this sentiment defect than Sherlock ever imagined, and he will not let go so easily. 

Bending his legs, he squats next to the cage. Cheek pressed against the bars, he watches the slow rise and fall of John’s sides, counts his laboured breaths. Even with fur matted and slick with sweat, the overhead lights catch on the tawny hue of his coat, picking out strands of grey and turning them metallic. Reaching through the space between the bars, Sherlock stretches until his fingers brush John’s forepaw, the only part of him he can reach. The pads are cracked and dry, rough under his fingertips, the sensation making his chest tighten. 

John twitches in his forced sleep, legs kicking sluggishly under the influence of the drugs. His nails click against the tile floor, a low whine drifting from the tapered snout before going still. 

Sherlock flicks ash onto the floor and closes his eyes. 

******

“Initially, there was an idea for an anti-viral.” Mycroft’s voice draws Sherlock out of his reverie, eyes focusing slowly, first on the bars, then the shape beyond. His brother stops inside the doorway of the lab, a file folder in his hand. Looking up, his mouth turns down when he sees Sherlock inside the cage, John's wolf head in his lap. “Sherlock, what are you doing in there?”

“Thinking.” Sherlock smoothes a hand over John’s soft ears, working his fingers into the thick guard hairs. “Do continue.” 

Mycroft sighs. Shifting the file into one hand, he grips the bars and leans forward to look through them, glaring at the detective. “The locks on that cage are meant to be unbreakable.”

Sherlock snorts, making Mycroft roll his eyes in response. _“Please.”_

“The codes change every ten minutes.” Mycroft’s face tightens. “They are generated by a coded AI program, based on the infinite number of pi. Impossible to predict.” 

Shrugging, Sherlock gently untangles a mat in John’s fur. “Are they? Sorry, I wasn’t aware.” 

“Really, Sherlock—”

Without looking up from his combing fingers, Sherlock says softly, “Mycroft.” 

In that desperate tone of voice, the sound of his name cuts off Mycroft’s planned words. Leaning back from the bars, he rubs a hand over his face. “I can’t guarantee your safety, do you realize that?” Sherlock looks up, meeting Mycroft’s earnest expression. “I don’t know what long term effects the virus will have on John’s mental state. You said the wolf on the moors was mad—John may become the same.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, voice subdued and face impassive. When he doesn’t move, Mycroft tries again.

“Sherlock, he could bite you. If he does—”

“I said, _I know_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock spits, fingers clutching thick handfuls of fur. His expression twists, turning ugly and raw before the mask slips back into place, smoothing away any sign of distress. “I don’t care.” 

“You say that now. You might not feel the same afterward.” Sherlock shoots his brother a warning look. Shaking his head, Mycroft relents. “Fine. I see you won’t listen to reason.” 

“Tell me about the anti-viral,” Sherlock says, ignoring the chastising words.

Offering a sharp, jerky nod, Mycroft rolls a chair toward the side of the cage. When he settles, it is with a loud sigh that draws Sherlock’s eyes briefly to his face. Whatever thoughts pass through his head, his expression betrays nothing before looking back to the wolf’s head in his lap. His fingers continue to work through tangles, gaze unfocused as Mycroft speaks.

“As I said, there was potential for an anti-viral. At one point, in the early days of the lycanthrope outbreak, several military factions suggested taming the werewolves. Or, rather, controlling them.”

“Super soldiers,” Sherlock interrupts flatly. Mycroft nods.

“Yes. It was a small operation, limited to a few keen individuals. It was later disbanded.”

“Baskerville.” 

“Indeed.” Flipping through the folder, Mycroft taps a finger to the page. “They called it HOUND. Several experiments were conducted, a series of trials from 1979 to 1982, when the project was scrapped. The results were…” he hesitates, sighing, “unpromising. Most subjects failed to recover, some simply remained in their wolf forms indefinitely. For all intents and purposes, they became, essentially, regular wolves, even if their origin was human. A much larger percentage, already severely weakened by the stress of the virus on their physiology, perished.” Staring hard at Sherlock, Mycroft waits until the detective meets his eyes. “The anti-viral was too much of a strain. They died of a mix of complications, mainly heart failure and organ shut-down. Septic shock.” He shrugs, flipping the folder shut. 

“That’s it?” Sherlock demands, voice rising. “What about the survivors? The ones who recovered?”

Mycroft looks away, frowning. For him, the brief slip in his facade is massive, filling Sherlock’s chest with trepidation. It is akin to breathing ice water, and he pulls in a stuttering breath.

“Mycroft?” There is no response, and Sherlock’s face hardens. “Don’t patronize me.”

When Mycroft faces him once more, his older brother spreads his hands helplessly. “There weren’t any.” 

Sherlock grimaces. “I don’t understand.” Looking at Mycroft, he scowls. “Why did they need to be destroyed? The werewolves? Before the virus, John was always in control. Even when forced into the change on the full moon.” His fingers tense, gripping handfuls of fur until John whines low in his drugged sleep, and he forces his fists to loosen. 

Watching him, Mycroft raises a brow. “Are you sure about that, Sherlock?” His eyes trace over his brother’s face, the still-visible imprints of human teeth and bruises on his skin. “Do you really believe John isn’t a threat to you? To anyone else? How can you be certain?” Sherlock’s scowl deepens as he tugs the collar of his coat up to his chin. 

“John wouldn’t hurt me,” he mutters, expression dark, withdrawn. 

Mycroft sighs. “He has, little brother. Has, and will again. It is the nature of the wolf, and the curse of man.” Tilting his head back, he closes his eyes. “If we had let them live, they would have bred, spread, become impossible to contain. It was unanimous initially, and the only course of action that truly would remove any threat.”

“Initially?” Sherlock asks, looking up with narrowed eyes. 

“Yes, initially.” Mycroft shakes the folder in his hand. “Baskerville.” 

John shifts in his sleep, tail shifting, dragging heavy over the floor. Mycroft tenses, but the wolf settles again, muzzle pressed to Sherlock’s stomach. Feeling his brother’s eyes on him, Sherlock strokes a slow, reverent hand over John’s side as Mycroft speaks.

“Even with the virus, he’s strong. The sedatives will wear off soon.” There is a note of warning his voice. Sherlock works his fingers through guard hairs, into John’s undercoat, finding hot skin beneath.

“He won’t hurt me.” Ignoring Mycroft’s hard stare, he drapes an arm over John’s middle, shifting him closer with difficulty, the wolf’s large body heavy and torpid. 

Mycroft sighs.

“For both of your sakes, little brother, I hope you are right.” 

“Hope is a construct, Mycroft, relied on by idiots and men of faith,” Sherlock snaps. Closing his eyes, he curls forward, burying his face in John’s ruff. “I am neither.”


	17. Chapter 17

Frustration threatens to eat away at the tenuous hold he has managed to maintain on his thoughts. His facade in shambles, Sherlock stares at the few samples Mycroft managed to dredge up from some deep freeze. The solutions are old, denatured, well past prime use for anything other than studying the breakdown of decades-old serum. 

Scowling through the lens of the microscope at magnified decay, Sherlock slams his hands against the steel top of the workbench. Behind him, John voices a low, warbling growl, awake and pacing slow circles in the cage. Sherlock’s increasingly dark mood fills the lab, creating an endless feedback loop between him and the wolf. The more Sherlock curses and fumes, the more John paces, shaggy head swinging low and aggressive with each pass by the bars. The more John paces, the more desperate Sherlock becomes, feeling John’s humanity fade away in the feral eyes of the wolf.

“This is utterly useless.” Fury burns beneath his skin, leaving him powerless to a helpless rage that makes him grab the slide and hurl it against the far wall. It shatters into jagged pieces, glass littering the floor and the far worktop. The microscope nearly follows, but Sherlock curls his hands into fists instead, driving them against steel. “How am I supposed to do anything with this?” Tugging at his hair, he whirls on the spinning seat of his stool, teeth grinding. 

John’s pacing quickens, the wolf snapping his powerful jaws at the air, snarling in time with Sherlock’s frustrated exclamations. Watching him, Sherlock loosens his fingers, slipping them out of crushed curls. His body aches, stiff with stress and from sitting on the floor with John earlier. In the underground facility of the lab, Sherlock has no idea what time it is, if it’s day or night, how long has passed since they came here.

He closes his eyes and scrubs his hands over his face, rubbing at tired skin until it goes red, a splash of colour in his ashen cheeks. Following John’s restless pacing with an unfocused gaze, Sherlock lays out the data, talking through it aloud. John may not be able to answer him, but outlining the facts to him has always helped, whether John was present or not.

“The anti-viral was meant to cure the virus, keep the lycanthropes from falling into madness.” Stretching out his legs, Sherlock folds his hands together beneath his lips, squinting at the furred form circling within the cage. “Lab notes prove it was largely unsuccessful, and the project was scrapped shortly after it began. Presumably because of consistent failure.” His brow furrows, lips pressing together. “Unless...unless it was scrapped because it _was_ finally successful, but the government had already decided to eradicate all lycanthropes regardless, to remove any potential risk?” Eyes widening, Sherlock sits upright, hands separating, lifting before his face as his lips part around a soft, _“Oh!”_ He shakes his head, blinking his vision back into focus to find John settled on his haunches. Head cocked, ears flicked forward, the wolf watches him somberly. When Sherlock claps his hands together, the animal jumps but recovers, opening its mouth to pant as Sherlock exclaims, “That’s it, John! The wolf on the moors, the scrapped research, Baskerville! It all makes sense.” Rising to his feet, he strides to the bars, gripping them with exultant fists. “This is it, John. I’ve got it.”

The wolf’s tail flicks cautiously before thumping once, twice against the tiled floor in response.

******

“The project was never shut down.”

Looking up from his papers, Mycroft frowns at Sherlock’s entrance, the detective sweeping into the room in a vibration of excited energy. 

“I assure you,” Mycroft says slowly, setting his work aside, “it most certainly was.”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head, striding toward the desk and working his fingers frantically through his hair. His flushed face and wild eyes imitate fever, and his brother shoots him a concerned look as Sherlock continues. “No, it wasn’t. The wolf on the moors—you said it yourself, you didn’t know where it came from, why it was there.” Driving a hand against the back of the chair across from Mycroft, he grins, the expression bordering on unhinged. “The experiments, those that survived, they essentially became wolves, right? Yes?” At Mycroft’s hesitant nod, Sherlock rushes on, triumphant. “Someone has been working on the anti-viral, picking up where HOUND left off in the 80s. The original trials must have been successful, or close enough, for someone to think there was reason to continue the work.” Pacing, unconsciously echoing John’s movements in the lab, Sherlock bares his teeth in a sharp grin. “This is it, Mycroft. I’m right. I can _feel_ it.” 

“Sherlock.”

“It’s Baskerville, I’m sure of it. Not Stapleton—no imagination, asking the wrong questions of nature. Glowing rabbits, utter nonsense.” His words are a restless mutter, droning through fevered tones. “No, no, it’s someone else.”

“Sherlock.”

Lost in his deductions and thoughts, Sherlock whirls, covering the distance to the far wall. “Major Barrymore, maybe? He’s old enough for his father to have been involved when the outbreak occurred. Maybe Frankland?” His words die out, eyes going wide. “Oh— _OH!_ ” Whirling, he clenches his hands into fists. “Doctor Frankland. When I spoke to him, he seemed useless, but maybe... oh, he’s good, very good.” A sly look slips over Sherlock’s face, emphasizing the feverish glint in his eyes. “He said, ‘cell phone’ when I asked for his contact information. Cell phone? Not very English.” His arm shoots out, pointing at Mycroft’s grim face. “Indiana. Didn’t that file say some of the trials were held there? He’s the right age, it’s possible.” Shaking with fervour, Sherlock resumes his pacing. “It fits, Mycroft. Don’t you _see?_ It fits, it all fits. He must have continued the projects. Released those who survived into the moors, just another wolf in the wild.” 

He begins to sound frantic, missing it when Mycroft rises to his feet. 

“Sherlock, listen to me.”

He ignores the order, shaking his head with an annoyed huff. “No, Mycroft, no. It works, _it fits._ We need to have him brought here. Baskerville must have continued the work. They’re above spot checks like you said. You couldn’t have known.”

“ _Sherlock.”_

Something in Mycroft’s voice makes Sherlock finally stop. He ceases his wild pacing, turning slowly to look at his brother. “Don’t,” he says, desperate. “Whatever you’re going to say, Mycroft, don’t.”

Mycroft’s face tenses. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“No. No, Mycroft, don’t tell me I’m wrong. I swear if you try to tell me—”

Voice rising, Mycroft talks over him, cutting off Sherlock’s desperate plea.

“Bob Frankland is dead.” 

Sherlock’s mouth clicks shut. The colour drains from his face, air rushing out from his lungs in a loud sigh as Mycroft goes on.

“I received the phone call shortly before you came in.” His eyes flicker with regret, a surprising depth of sympathy in his expression. “He was found by a hiker out on the moors.” He pauses, hesitant, before adding, “His throat was ripped out and...he wasn’t alone. There was a young man with him, dead as well. His name was Henry Knight.” Sucking in a breath, Mycroft fixes Sherlock with a hard look. “He was a lycanthrope.” 

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry, his frantic sense of conviction seeping away as Mycroft’s words sink in.

“Frankland was trying to help him.” Mycroft’s voice reaches him as if from a great distance, an endless tunnel, Sherlock’s vision growing dim with shock. “As it turns out, Henry Knight was a rarity—a hereditary werewolf. His father was bitten during the outbreak. Frankland, as you surmised, was indeed involved in the HOUND project. After the initial failure of the anti-viral trials, in which Knight’s father perished, Henry went quite…” Spreading his hands, Mycroft sighs, “He lost his mind. I assume, because of his guilt, Frankland hoped to help by creating an anti-viral. It seems he believed Henry may have contracted the virus, hence his insanity. All the facts seem to indicate he was not successful. When he encountered Henry, the wolf killed him.”

“And Henry?” Sherlock stares at the floor. He feels numb, the words emerging from deadened lips. “How did he die?”

Mycroft shrugs, sighing deeply. “I can’t be certain until an autopsy is performed, but the report says he was malnourished. Emaciated. It’s likely he was near death already, using the last of his strength to kill the man who failed him.” His eyes fix on Sherlock’s face, sharp, pinning him in place. “I implore you, yet again, Sherlock. Let John go.” Sherlock blinks at the sudden redirect, caught off guard. “He will become more unstable, it is only a matter of time.” Mycroft’s voice softens. “There is nothing we can do. He is a risk to your safety and that of others, a liability. We cannot keep him caged indefinitely. It is time for you to see reason.” Pulling in a loud breath, he adds, “He is just one man.”

Stiff-backed, Sherlock draws himself to his full height. His eyes narrow to slits. “If you touch him, Mycroft, you will have me to answer to.” 

“I realize you mean to intimidate me, little brother, but the fact of the matter is that this is bigger than you. Bigger than John.” Mycroft levels a hard stare on his brother, hands clasped into a tight knot. “I would rather deal with the matter with your blessing, but know that I do not require it.”

“Nothing is bigger than John,” Sherlock spits, fists shaking at his sides. “Don’t touch him again, Mycroft. I promise, you will regret it if you do.”

Looking at him serenely, Mycroft shakes his head.

“I know, Sherlock. And, yet, the risk of your ire is less than the risk of keeping him alive.” Breaking eye contact, Mycroft loosens his hands, reaching out to gather and straighten the papers on his desk. “I suggest you spend time with him, say your goodbye. I can guarantee you 24 hours, nothing more. I have already done all I can to delay his destruction. I cannot, in good conscience, allow John to remain here any longer.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to add this, but I've made a cover for this fic
> 
> You can view it on my Tumblr [here](https://simplyclockwork.tumblr.com/post/618794423014309888/simplyclockwork-lunar-phase-by-simplyclockwork)

Sherlock feels numb. Eyes wide, his lips part around a disbelieving breath. 

“You wouldn’t.” 

Looking up from the papers in his hands, Mycroft offers a small, empty smile. “Little brother, are you really so naïve?” When Sherlock doesn’t reply, just stares, he gestures to the door. “Now, go. I have work to do, and you have goodbyes to make.” It is an apparent dismissal, Mycroft leaving Sherlock to show himself out.

Reeling, he turns and leaves the office, Mycroft’s words heavy in his head. Sherlock finds his way back to the lab on autopilot and unsteady legs. The facility is clinical, maze-like, every corner turning into another featureless stretch of white-walled hallway.

Inside the lab, two strangers in white coats stand outside John’s cage. They maintain cautious distance from the bars, watching intently as John paces, growling, lips curling back to display black gums and wicked teeth. The wolf is clearly distraught, whining between the reverberant snarls ripping from his chest. The sounds are threatening, ominous, humming in the sterile air.

“Get out,” Sherlock orders, his voice sharp enough to rival the wolf’s threats. They turn, startled by his entrance. When they continue to hover, uncertain, Sherlock repeats himself in a shout, hands shaking at his sides as John raises his snout in a loud, haunting howl. “Get out!” The onslaught of noise seems to drive the command home, and the strangers hurry out of the lab, leaving Sherlock alone with a howling wolf.

Gradually, John’s eerie vocalization dwindles into wide-mouthed barks, a questioning _‘awoo,’_ the sound echoing the premature ache of loss rising in Sherlock’s chest. 

“He can’t.” Moving forward, Sherlock wraps his fingers around the bars. “I won’t let him, John. I won’t.” 

The wolf lowers his head, watching Sherlock warily, tail held up and tense, body language cautious. He pads closer and halts, voicing an uncertain whine. Despite his inhuman shape, the eyes are still John’s, deep blue, sharp, roving over Sherlock’s tense face. Another soft whine drifts from John’s fanged mouth, a wordless query that Sherlock recognizes as echoing something within himself, and he slides to his knees in response. 

“I know,” he says, pressing his face to the bars. “I know. I thought I had it worked out, too. I thought I had the answers.” Closing his eyes, Sherlock shakes his head. “I was wrong.” 

Something cold touches his cheek, shocking his eyes back open to find himself face-to-face with the wolf, John’s nose drifting over his neck with a loud inhale. Sherlock holds his breath, scared to move lest he startle him away. His muscles tighten, body tensed to keep the urge to shake at bay. He stays still and silent, letting John scent along his shoulders, chest, wherever he can reach, even poking his nose into Sherlock’s armpit through the bars. Lightly tickling, breath huffing out in a loud snort, John sneezes, shakes his shaggy head, and butts up against the underside of Sherlock’s chin. 

The meaning is clear. Even like this, without his human form and familiar personhood, John is with him. At his side, stable, sturdy, reliable. 

Sherlock reaches out slowly, careful not to startle the wolf as he threads his fingers into thick fur. He drops his forehead against John’s head, closes his eyes at John’s soft whine, focusing on the way the wolf presses into him with a rumbling sound deep in his broad chest. 

Once it’s made, the decision is a surprisingly easy one.

Tugging John close despite the wolf’s warning growl, Sherlock breathes the musky, animal smell deep into his lungs before releasing him. As he rocks back on his heels to rise, the wolf yips and jerks away, barking disapproval at the sudden movement. Sherlock ignores the reaction, leaving John to pace uneasily behind him. Crossing the room, he locks the doors before pushing one of the heavy work tables in front. The metal legs scrape over the tiled floor, a harsh, screeching noise that sets John to howling again, ears flattening against his skull at the sound. 

Sherlock pushes another table in front of the door, strengthening the impromptu barricade. He begins to speak, raising his voice over John’s building complaints, nearly yelling to be heard by the microphones as he stacks chairs and stools on top of the tables.

“After all this time, Mycroft, I really thought you’d have learned not to underestimate me.” He flips a smaller table onto its side, disrupting beakers and expensive equipment, pushing it to the door. John’s sharp barking is a loud, brazen counterpoint to his words as he carries on. “I’ve never listened to you before, and I’m not about to start now.” Tossing handfuls of delicate glass test tubes at the door, letting them shatter against the tiles, Sherlock turns to face the cameras recording overhead. 

“Just one man?” His lip curls, hands rising to execute a two-fingered salute that would make human John Watson proud. “Let me know if my actions make you a hypocrite or if your quaint Queen and Country mindset extends to your only brother.” A slow smile changes his face into something feverish. “Check, _brother mine._ Your move.” 

Turning his back on the cameras, Sherlock strides toward the cage. John crouches at his approach, shows his teeth in warning, quivering with aggravated aggression after the din. Every line of Sherlock’s body as he approaches is tense and hard, the wolf snapping in his direction when he reaches the door. 

It takes a few minutes to disable the lock again, to calculate the code before it changes. By the time he disengages the locking mechanisms, someone is banging on the barricaded door. The voice rising from the hall is Mycroft’s, the tone high and tense with anger.

“Don’t do this, Sherlock.” His words are muffled by the doors between them, and by Sherlock’s impromptu barricade. “Sherlock!” He bangs harder. One of the stools rattles off the edge of a table, clattering to the floor. The noise sets John off again, and the wolf turns in a tight, tense circle, nails clicking against tiles, harsh growls rising and falling from behind a wall of teeth. 

“As I said, Mycroft, I’ve never been one to follow orders, and certainly not yours.” Sherlock grabs the bars, working to wrench the heavy cage open. “I’m not going to start listening now.”

“Sherlock!”

The cage swings open, and John erupts through the opening, a blur of fur and fangs shoving past the heavy door like it weighs nothing. Nails clicking, paws skidding across the floor, he slides side-first into the wall, a flurry of rage. Legs kicking, presence thunderous, the wolf wheels about. His growls, loud, hair-raising, send goosebumps rippling over Sherlock’s skin, throwing him back in time to the night on the moors. Fear tastes bitter, acrid in his mouth. Still, he moves toward the furious beast, unrelenting despite Mycroft’s fists against the door. 

“Sherlock, open the door!” 

“What was it you said, Mycroft?” Sherlock shouts, startling John into a low crouch, the wolf’s teeth snapping as the detective moves closer. “24 hours? I wonder if it will take you so long to sort out the anti-viral with an appropriate incentive.” Locking eyes with the wolf, he releases a shuddering breath, watching the guard hairs rise in a ridge over his back. John’s stiff-legged body language warns him away. “I’m sorry, John,” he says, voice softer, just between them. “I don’t know how else to do this.” 

The wolf’s head cocks to the side, lips still peeled back. Taking a breath, Sherlock lunges forward. 

John reacts immediately, his initial surprise fading beneath the instinct for defense. Despite the familiar smell of Sherlock, the wolf surges forward and up. The heavy jaws open, snapping down on Sherlock’s arm like a vice when he grabs John’s head. 

The first jolt of pain comes several seconds after John’s teeth sink into his skin, adrenaline delaying nerve responses. When the message finally connects, agony shoots up Sherlock’s arm, flesh and muscle shredded by the bite. Swallowing down the scream climbing in his throat, Sherlock grits his teeth and shoves forward, trying to push John off his feet, provoking him further. Planting his legs, he heaves until the wolf snarls. John clamps his jaws harder, cruel jaws pressing, teeth rending, tearing until the force of the assault meets bone, cracking Sherlock’s ulna like a toothpick. 

The break is pure torture, forcing a cry from his clenched jaw, bringing Sherlock to his knees as the doors explode inward, the force of detonation sending tables and chairs across the room. A stool narrowly misses Sherlock and John, the wolf releasing the detective’s arm to dance away before wheeling to challenge a rush of armed men. They back John into the corner, forcing him to retreat, losing ground with snapping teeth, snarling at the guns pointed in his face. 

Still on his knees, cradling the broken arm to his chest, letting blood soak into the front of his coat, Sherlock looks up as Mycroft enters the room. He stands over his brother, Sherlock sneering up at him with red smeared over his cheek, eyes wide with pain and adrenaline. 

“Check-mate.” Lip curled, Sherlock's sneer shifts into a feral grin before he collapses face-first onto the ground at Mycroft’s feet.

**-End of Part Three-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of part three. stay tuned for part four soon(ish?) and John/Wolf POV.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _hey wolf, there's lions in here  
>  there's lions in here, there's lions in here  
> hey wolf, just see there's no fear  
> just see it's no fair, there are lions in here_
> 
> Run Run Blood - Phantogram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I changed 'vaccine' to 'anti-viral' because I finally realized that was not the right term. Sorry, this story is kind of a mess. Usually, I do more research for my writing, but I wrote this very much on the fly, so oops.

**-PART FOUR-**

He hadn’t wanted to bite the man. Didn't mean to harm his mate. After the noise and aggression of Sherlock moving objects over the floor, the banging of fists, the threatening movement was too much. The wolf reacts, adrenaline and instinct packaged with cruel teeth and speed, catching Sherlock’s limb in his jaws. 

Blood floods his mouth, metallic, hot, rich on his tongue, an explosion of violent taste. He can smell his mate’s fear, mingled into pain. Shock ripples through him, barely recovering rationality before Sherlock pushes forward. He tries to throw the wolf off his feet, an attempt at domination, at upsetting the pack hierarchy. The wolf reacts again. He bites harder, pounds of pressure crunching and breaking bone. The taste of marrow is followed by the stronger, more pungent scent of tangy fear and adrenaline. The wolf wants to howl, snarl, and wail his distress, but sound, heat, and action erupt behind him. With his back to the commotion, _danger, danger, danger_ screaming through his head, he releases his mate’s arm. There is no time to scold or mourn, to check on his mate, only time to react, protect, attack. 

Spurred on by instincts and some deep understanding of danger response from that other presence in his head—fainter but tangible—the wolf darts away and turns. The hostiles rush toward him, reeking of sweat, man, anger, fear, the acrid smell of human weaponry. He rears, snapping wildly, but they force him back until his hindquarters hit the wall, leaving him nowhere to run.

Trapped, pinned, the wolf snarls and digs his front paws at the floor, fur over his spine lifting in clear warning. The men don’t back down, forcing him lower with their weapons, his flashing teeth no match for the threat of destruction. 

Through their legs, the wolf sees Sherlock on the floor, shouting at Mycroft. He has no limit to his fury at Mycroft, the man who brought him here, separated him from his mate. Hurt him with sharp things, with hands and men who only watched as he screamed his pain. Instinct and self-preservation war with rage, the anger narrowly winning over, turning the wolf’s vision hazy with the need to tear and rend. 

_Pack_ , he thinks, followed by _mate,_ the softer voice in his head whispering, _Sherlock._

Rising, the wolf throws himself forward. The sudden attack catches the men off guard, the surprise of his lunge carrying him into the chest of one of them, the wolf’s weight bearing them both to the floor. The other men shout, train their guns on them, hesitant to shoot with one of their own in the crosshairs. 

The voice in the wolf's head tells him to remain. To hold his ground and weather the standoff, a tactical advantage. Lowering his head, the wolf offers an open, gaping mouth of teeth that has the man beneath him shouting wild, unheeded words. He shoves his snout into the man’s cheek, snarling deep in his chest, and the chaos falls silent. Dies in the air and dissipates into tense waiting. 

The man’s chest rises and falls beneath his weight. His eyes are wide, the whites flashing with utter terror. Letting his jaws part, the wolf drips slick drool against his cheek, whining with pleasure as the man’s fear smell increases, sharpening. It adds a thick, soupy layer of terror to the air, making the wolf dig his nails into the man’s body armour.

One of the others shifts around, moving to train his weapon on the wolf’s head. Looking up at him, head low, ears back, the wolf voices a long, low growl. He has no doubt the human’s weapon will kill him faster than he can escape, but he will take one of their own with him. Like an alpha courting its mate with a fresh kill, he will rip through the throat of the man beneath him, taste blood and die with fading life on his tongue. 

Another growl eases past his bared teeth as Mycroft moves into view, holding out a hand to the man with the weapon.

“Hold.”

The wolf's eyes roll, watching the man approach. He hunkers lower, lips wrinkled, peeling back over cruel incisors, yellow and dripping with saliva. His nostrils flare, bringing in the mingled scents of Mycroft’s emotions, shock mixed with sorrow, tinged with terrified anger. 

Snout pointing toward the face of the man beneath him, the wolf stares, daring him to come closer. As if understanding, Mycroft stops, nodding to the others until they, too, back away, creating distance between themselves and the wolf-pinned man on the floor. 

“John,” Mycroft says, speaking slowly, carefully, “Don’t hurt him. If you hurt him, we will have to shoot you, and Sherlock’s sacrifice will have been for nothing.”

 _Sherlock_.

The wolf’s head snaps up, bloodlust easing just enough for him to search, to spot his mate, propped unsteadily against the far wall. Injured arm cradled against his chest, his skin paper-white. Paws digging, nails making the man beneath him wince, the wolf looks back to Mycroft, voicing a long, low whine. 

“Yes, he is injured. He did this for you, John. To keep you alive.” Mycroft’s face is tense, lips a hard line. His body language is aggressive, unappreciated by the wolf, and he snarls in response, communicating his displeasure. Mycroft’s eyes narrow, emotions flickering over his face before he deliberately breaks eye contact, ducking his head. The action almost seems to pain him, tension heavy in his shoulders. The wolf barks, pouncing hard onto the chest of the man beneath him. It drives the air from his victim's lungs, incapacitating him as the wolf rockets forward, catching everyone off guard. 

He feints toward Mycroft, a not-idle threat that has the man abruptly stumbling aside. The wolf shoots past. He pauses only to snap at Mycroft's legs, startling him before skidding to a stop next to Sherlock's pale, still form. 

Sherlock smells like blood and pain, like a weak, wounded animal. He pushes his nose into the man’s chest, nudges his face and drags his tongue over his cheek. Sherlock stirs, voicing a weak sound when the wolf jostles his wounded arm. Whining, the wolf laps at the bite before pacing anxious semi-circles around the man’s outstretched legs. 

“John, he needs medical attention.” 

Mycroft’s approach incites John to adopt a defensive posture. Agitated, the wolf hunkers over his mate, belly low to the ground, side pressed to Sherlock’s chest. The man leans forward, face in thick fur, and the wolf watches Mycroft halt in his steps to watch them both warily. 

“John, you are a medical doctor. You must recognize the need for care.” Mycroft grimaces, displeasure thrumming through his words, tugging down the corners of his lips. “Let’s not make this situation any messier than Sherlock already has.”

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.” Sherlock’s voice is weak, a wheezing whisper, but audible in the tense silence of the room. Lifting his head, gripping a handful of fur with his uninjured hand, the detective sits up with a pained wince. 

“You allowed yourself to be savaged by a beast.” Mycroft’s words drip with ire. 

“John was just following his instincts.” 

Eyes cold, Mycroft folds his arms over his chest, glaring at them both. “Instincts that, thanks to your foolish actions, you will shortly share.” His brows lower in a dark scowl. “I don’t know what you expect me to do now, Sherlock.”

Shooting him a look, Sherlock smirks. “I expect you to find a cure.” 

“And how will I do that? And what makes you think I should, after the stunt you pulled.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond and flinches instead. The wolf whines, pressing closer. Both brothers reek of anger and fear. Sherlock’s unique scent is dulled with the thick smell pain and the tang of blood. Burrowing his nose against his mate’s thigh, the wolf growls up at Mycroft, provoking a faint smile from Sherlock. Mycroft meets the wolf’s eyes. Lips peeling back, the wolf bares his teeth and snarls, tail sweeping up, ears back with clear threat. The man glares at him, but he refuses to back down until Mycroft’s eyes drop to the ground. Sherlock’s soft laugh vibrates against his side.

“Looks like you have your answer, Mycroft.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update, then posting such a short chapter. Writing is pretty hard right now.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for seizures, mentions of war and gun violence.

It takes careful coaxing and precious time for the wolf to move from Sherlock’s side and allow medical attention. By the time the humans help his mate to his feet, Sherlock is half-awake, feet dragging. Supported by a man on each side, he is led from the room. 

When the wolf moves to follow, his way is barred by guns and hard eyes. No amount of snarling, pacing, or snapping allows him through, and the resistance drives him into a fury. Howling, lunging at legs covered with thick, protective fabric, the wolf manages to injure two of the men before a sound draws his attention. 

Wheeling to address the new threat, something pricks his side. The pain is sharp and familiar, and the wolf snarls, clawing at the slippery tile floor until his legs go slack, sliding out from beneath him. Dumped to the floor in a heap, he feels another prick in his neck, the sensation met with a snapping of teeth. 

“John, you could at least make an effort to be civil.” 

The voice is Mycroft’s, frustrated and cold. Showing his teeth, the wolf struggles against the flood of sedatives seeping into his veins. Gradually, his movements slow and halt, vision fading away. 

******

_Sand. It’s everywhere. In his face, blowing against his narrowed eyes, stuck between clumped eyelashes. Caught between his helmet and the sweat sheening his forehead, rubbing against skin turned raw and sunburn-hot. There’s a gun in his hands, a long, heavy rifle. The nylon strap over his shoulder tangles with the straps of his heavy field pack. He twists, trying to untangle the mess._

_In the distance, moving closer, is the sound of violence. War. Detonations, the cries of men, the rattle of bullets and dying breaths._

_Sand explodes next to him, hammered into the air by a barrage of bullets. It’s a warning, they missed on purpose. They’re playing with him, with all of them, like this is some big, endless game instead of real life. It’s never ending, this war. A lie for glory, a farce of brave men and women._

_A bullet whizzes past his head. The air from its passing is hot, loud, stealing away his breath. The concussive force of another nearby explosion throws him to his knees._

Get up

_I can’t._

Get up now

_The sand is warm. A shifting cradle that cushions his body, the first hint of comfort he’s had after days of marching beneath a hot sun. Even the wind is hot. They’re in an oven, and no one can survive being baked alive, nevermind the bullets and the bombs waiting beneath the sand to eat your limbs and shatter your eardrums._

GET UP

_A shadow falls over him, a brief obstruction of the punishing sun upon his skin. The shape at his side is neither man nor machine. It’s immense, a broken beast on four legs. When he turns his head, brown eyes flecked with gold stare back at him from above a canine muzzle. Drooling, dripping teeth, flicking ears that rotate back at the sound of war._

Get up, _it says. The wolf speaks not with human words but inside his head, a humming baritone. Before his eyes, the creature changes, its eyes lightening, burning pale silver over green-blue irises. The fur darkens, heavy brown mixed with almost black, the beast growing, expanding, larger than life, dark against the sand, no longer blending into the brown and yellow hues of the desert._

Get up, John, _the beast tells him, and he knows that voice, knows it deep in his bones, the faint ache in his back molars._

Sherlock?

_The wolf’s ears flick forward and back, a parody of a nod._

_When he reaches out, hand shaking, the wolf lunges forward. He falls back, a scream dying in his throat. Teeth rip into his shoulder, rending, tearing, threatening to separate muscle and tendon from bone. Blood runs freely from the wound, soaking into and darkening the pale camouflage pattern of his flak jacket._

_He’s hot, cold, freezing, burning, the pain is tearing him apart as the wolf rears back. Next time, it will be his face or his throat, and he’ll be done. Devoured. If not, the life pouring out of his ruined shoulder will certainly pick up where the wolf left off._

_His eyes crack open, the sunlight blinding. A man is standing above him. He wears a sharp, pinstripe three-piece suit, and cradles a rifle against his chest, the twin to his own. At his feet, the dark wolf lays dead, pale eyes staring emptily toward the horizon. Blood wells from a score of bullet wounds in the beast’s side, mixing with the sand in a rusty mess._

_He feels a strange sense of loss, an aching pain deep in his chest. Raising his eyes to the man, he opens his mouth to speak. All that emerges is a low whine. He tries again, and this time it’s a howl, long and high-pitched, tinged with anguished sorrow._

_He’s alone. So completely alone. The voice in his head has faded, gone silent when he needs it most, and he is alone._

_The man standing over him frowns. He raises the rifle. With the butt against his shoulder, he almost looks apologetic._

So sorry, Doctor Watson, _he says. The mechanical slide of the gun as it’s cocked is loud in the suddenly silent desert. Lowering his head to look through the sight, the man in the three-piece suit trains the black, staring eye of the gun at his wrecked shoulder._ Nothing personal. 

_The report is deafening._

******

Someone is screaming. It takes a moment to realize it’s him, the sound ripping out from his throat, reverberating in the cold, clinical room. Magnified by the bare walls, the noise seems doubled, echoing back to his sensitive ears. It hurts, too loud, too high, but he can’t stop. The howling shriek rolls out of him in a discordant wave, only dying away when he retches. Thin, watery bile and foam spatters the floor, kicked into a slick mess by his jittering paws. The movements of his body are violent and involuntary. Through fogged vision, he can see vertical bars, humans just beyond. They move in panicked patterns, pacing toward and away from the cage.

His sides heave, and he retches again. The thin dribble runs between gnashing teeth, a low whine filtering out through a raw throat. 

“He’s seizing. We need to administer Phenobarbital.”

“You’re welcome to get in the cage with him if you like.”

The rest of the words fade away, and he shudders through another convulsion. As the heavy door of the cage swings open, he barely notices it, panting through the shaking inner quake. Eyes dimming, he hardly registers the hands on his body. They hold him against the ground, restricting the jerking movements of his limbs, a prelude to the sharp prick of metal in his leg, followed by a full-body feeling of numbness. 

Weighted down by hands and the medication, he falls limp. Tongue lolling out between red-flecked teeth, he stares into the distance, nose filled with the smell of blood, pain, and sand. 

_Get up, John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phenobarbital is an anti-seizure medication used on dogs.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _and all I ever want  
>  is just a little love  
> I said in purrs under the palms  
> and all I ever want is breaking me apart  
> I said to the thing that I once was_  
>    
> Toes - Glass Animals

His head swims. Confusion colours every thought that passes through his mind, twisting them, turning them into disoriented misunderstanding. 

He is human.

 _John_.

He is the wolf.

_John._

Soldier, beast, doctor, predator, human hands, snapping jaws. The titles swirl, meld, merge together, pulling him in twain. 

Rolling his snout against the cold, hard floor, he voices a low whine. After the seizure and the injection, he feels lethargic, heavy. Weighed down. Moving is a struggle, and raising his head makes the room tilt, his stomach roiling with the urge to be sick. He wants to crawl away and hide, leave his body to heal or succumb to the fever burning deep inside. But they keep him in the cage, inside this sterile, sharp-smelling room, sticky with the scent of humans, his mate’s pain, and his own sickness. 

They cleaned Sherlock’s blood off the floor with something chemical, the reek of it burning in his sensitive nose. But his snout and fur are still spattered with gore, filling his senses with the panicked smell of agony, fear, and desperation. 

The urge to pace rises, nearly forces him to his feet. His head lifts, the movement enough to make the edges of his vision go dim. Whimpering, he settles back on the floor, snout pushed between his paws, seeking respite from the bitter, acrid smells of the room. On the other side of the bars, a man is watching him intently, eyes fixed on the wolf’s sluggish body. He tries to ignore the man, voicing a soft grumble.

Across the room, the double doors swing open. The man sits upright, blinking before rising to his feet. The wolf lifts his head again as a barrage of smells reaches him from the hallway. Other men, more chemical hints of medicine, the faint tang of blood and pain. 

Two armed men enter, guns held at ease across their chests. A more familiar smell drifts in their wake, and the wolf sits up with difficulty. Unsteady, his ears perk up, staring past the men and their guns, the tip of his tail twitching with hopeful anticipation. His hearing picks up the sound of lighter steps seconds before the owner of said feet appears, curly hair damp and unstyled. 

Sherlock looks exhausted, his usually pale eyes like twin bruises in his waxen face. They fix on the wolf, something like relief, sweet and heady, seeping into his smell. 

At the sight of him, the wolf pushes to his feet. Walking to the bars is a struggle, his gait sloppy and uneven, but he makes it at the same time as Sherlock, butting his head against the hand offered through the bars. Sherlock’s fingers curl through the matted fur on his skull, working through tangles. His wounded arm is wrapped with bandages, stabilized against his chest by a sling, reeking of unfamiliar hands and materials. 

The wolf sniffs at it, nosing gently at the covering until Sherlock rises to his feet, moving out of range. Whining, the wolf’s tail flicks in a slow, querying sweep, ears flattened to his head with confusion. But Sherlock just turns to the men, exhaustion evident in every line of his body.

“Open the door.” 

The men share a look, hesitation on their faces. One of them clears his throat, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his gun. 

“Sir, Mister Holmes said—”

Sherlock’s expression twists. His upper lip pulls back in a snarl, and the wolf echoes the display, hackles rising as a deep growl rumbles through his chest. 

“Do you think I _care_ what my brother said?” Drawing himself up to his full height, Sherlock glares down at the shorter man. “Open the door.” 

“Sherlock, I only agreed to you leaving the infirmary to see John.” Mycroft’s voice precedes his entrance. Pushing through the double doors, he approaches with smooth, controlled steps, stopping at Sherlock’s side. His eyes dart over his brother, to the wolf hunkered in the cage with bared teeth. “You need to rest and recover, and coming in here simply to rile John is doing neither of you any favours.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker with faint fire before darkening again, fatigue passing over his face. 

“Just open the door, Mycroft. I’m too tired to fight. You have your work cut out for you, so stop meddling and get to it.” 

Folding his hands in front of him, Mycroft frowns. “Sherlock, surely you understand that I cannot—”

Sherlock whirls, the toll of the sudden movement obvious in the way he sways. Still, he holds his ground, glaring at his brother. “Over the next 24 to 48 hours, my body will undergo a change. With the virus in John’s bloodstream, it is unknown what state I will be in once my form shifts. You will have to contain me then. If you open the cage now and let me in, you will have already ensured my safety, and that of your men.” His lips twist, face tensing before falling slack. Eyes slipping shut, he rubs a hand over the rough shadow of stubble on his jaw. “If you’ve decided to have us both destroyed, then so be it. I’ve done what I can to force your hand.” Sherlock breathes in deeply, holds the air in his lungs and exhales, voice heavy with weariness. “Just let me be with him, Mycroft. Please.” The word seems to pain him, almost a plea, and Sherlock grimaces. “If you’re going to condemn both of us, then at least don’t let us die alone.” 

Mycroft stares at his brother, a muscle working in his jaw with a steady, jumping tic. Finally, he nods stiffly. 

“I don’t know what happened to you, Sherlock,” he says, almost casually, nodding to one of the guards to disarm the locks on the cage door. “But you are not who I thought you were.” 

“People change,” Sherlock replies. His eyes are on the wolf, who moves to the back of the cage, pacing as the lock disengages with a loud click. 

Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. Watching him, the wolf’s tail flicks back and forth, wary. 

“I didn’t realize you considered yourself ‘people,’ brother mine.” 

As the guard pulls the door open and steps aside, Sherlock pauses, shooting his brother a look. “Don’t worry, Mycroft. That will change, soon enough.”

Lips pursed, Mycroft watches silently as Sherlock steps inside the cage, one of the armed men locking the door behind him. 

Shaking out his fur, the wolf pads forward, nuzzling into the dip of Sherlock’s hip. As Sherlock reaches out with his unrestricted hand to fondle the wolf’s ears, Mycroft speaks again.

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

His mate stiffens. Lifting his head, the wolf whines up at him, dragging the rough surface of his tongue over the stilled hand. Blinking hard, Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, as if discarding something heavy and sinks carefully down to the floor with long legs folded beneath him.

“Obviously, Mycroft.” 

He falls silent after that, ignoring Mycroft’s presence. Watching him, the wolf paces before the bars separating them until the man turns away, moving toward the door. His men follow, casting the wolf and man curious looks. Pausing only to dim the lights, Mycroft leaves them alone in the lab. Once certain he is gone, the wolf returns to his mate. 

His back to the bars, Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his face drawn. His exhaustion is clear, evident in his pale skin and the smell of sickness wafting off of him. Whining, the wolf sits next to him and nudges at his shoulder until Sherlock responds, leaning his good side against the beast’s broad, furry side. 

“John,” Sherlock murmurs. His fingers work into thick fur, tangling in the ruff, his face pressing into feverish heat. “I’m sorry.” 

The wolf rumbles a low hum, turning to swipe his tongue over the skin of Sherlock’s bent neck. The man tastes different, a bitter, oily flavour beneath his usual musk. It reminds him of the black wolf and he growls, rubbing his muzzle against Sherlock’s neck and head. When he finally settles, Sherlock smells more like him than the acrid scent of the virus, and the wolf huffs his contentment as Sherlock’s body falls warm and limp against his, the man sinking into sleep. 

Dark eyes bright in the semi-dark, the wolf keeps watch, ignoring the heavy exhaustion sinking deep into his aching body.


	22. Chapter 22

When he wakes, it is to the sensation of shuddering. This time, it is not his own body that convulses, but Sherlock’s. Sweet-sheened, panting through spasms, the man’s eyes are tightly shut when the wolf rises to his feet in shock, fur standing up along his spine. A growl drifts from his bared teeth, but there is no physical threat, nothing to fight or challenge. Just Sherlock, shivering violently against the tiled floor as his scent changes, shifts into something more beast-like. 

The wolf can smell his humanity receding, merging with something different, something wild and inhuman. He nudges at his mate, whining low in his chest, but Sherlock doesn’t respond. His eyes stay tightly shut, and he remains curled into himself, skin fever-hot and slick with sweat. 

Pacing the cage, the wolf frequently returns to lick the man’s face, to nuzzle against his back. His inability to comfort Sherlock pushes his energy towards frantic, frenetic movements, accompanied by the loud click of his nails against the floor with every circuit. 

It becomes a pattern. Cross to the door. Turn. Sweep the room for threat. Pace to the far edge of the cage. Pause to sniff aggressively over the shuddering man on the floor to no response. Resume pacing. 

Two hours into his vigil, the room suddenly floods with light and the wolf snarls in response. The double doors swing open, and the man who observed him earlier re-appears, Mycroft at his side. They make to approach the cage, but the wolf barks, a volley of harsh, aggressive noise that halts them in his steps.

“John, we’re here to help.” 

Mycroft’s placating voice does nothing to placate his wariness, and the wolf circles the edge of the cage. Whenever either man moves toward the bars, he rushes forward, snapping jaws reaching between the gaps. After he narrowly misses taking a chunk from the lab tech’s arm, the men retreat and sit in chairs, watching from a safe distance. 

Still uneasy about their presence with his mate in such a state, the wolf turns tight circles, whining with his head low to the floor. His pacing resumes, returning like clockwork to Sherlock’s side when the man begins to make quiet noises of pain. The sound triggers something in the wolf’s head, a memory of sand and agony, curling in on himself in a different body with the sun beating down on his bare skin. 

He takes up an almost constant growl, harmonizing with Sherlock’s low noises. When Sherlock’s voice rises, his vocalizations do as well, the two of them weaving a hair-raising symphony of suffering. 

By the fifth hour, Mycroft is on his feet.

“That’s enough. _Enough_ , John. You need to let us help him.” 

The wolf halts, head swinging around, eyes rolling toward the man. Ignoring the aggressive display, Mycroft approaches the cage. The wolf’s jaws part, drooling blood-flecked saliva between dark lips, and he stalks stiff-legged to the bars. 

“Move aside, John.” 

He refuses, panting up at the man on the other side of the cage. Mycroft stares back, holding the wolf’s blazing gaze. When neither of them back down, the lab tech sidles toward the edge of the cage, where Sherlock is still curled on his side. 

Catching the movement from the corner of his eye, the wolf whirls. Sturdy legs bending, he surges forward, colliding with the bars, rattling the cage. The man shouts and falls back, tripping over an overturned stool. Sprawled on the floor, he scrambles backward, narrowly avoiding the wolf’s teeth as they snap past the bars, aiming for his legs. 

Once the man is no longer near his mate, the wolf stalks back to Sherlock. Paws planted, he stands over him, body low over Sherlock’s curved back. Watching him, Mycroft sighs, retreating once more. He settles back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, waiting. 

******

The change happens earlier than assumed, accelerated by the virus. Sherlock’s fever rises, his face flushed, hair plastered to his head by perspiration. Holding his position, legs caging in the man beneath him, the wolf alternates between whining a low, almost-constant chorus of sympathy, and licking the sweat from Sherlock’s damp skin.

He smells the oncoming shift before it begins, the sharp tang of it reminiscent of electrified air before a thunderstorm. Growling, fur standing up, the wolf backs away, reversing until his rear legs hit the bars. Roused from his stupor, Mycroft shakes his head and rises to his feet. 

The wolf begins to whine again, a deeper sound this time, heavy with aggravation. 

It has been twelve hours, and Sherlock’s shaking merges into something more robust. Not quite a seizure, the motions of his body are almost fluid, nothing like the wolf’s convulsions from before. Akin to melting flesh under fire, the change is unstable, made clumsy with unfamiliarity. 

The first to change is the spine. Sherlock’s form seems to buckle, to cave in on itself before expanding. It moves to his shoulders, bones cracking as the blades shift, remould, his hips mimicking the adjustment. His clothes strain, torn apart as the body within bends, grows, and breaks free of the material, splitting at the seams. The sling follows, ripping with a loud noise, bandages drifting to the floor. 

A loud, resonant sound hums from Sherlock’s throat, a borderline shriek and growl, changing as his body changes, as his throat moulds itself into something inhuman.

Tipping his snout upward, the wolf merges his howl with the pained emission. Sherlock’s own vocalizing shifts closer to a similar sound as fur erupts over his skin. The accompanying noise is that of grinding bone and muscle, of a body settling into something different and entirely new. 

Mycroft watches with shocked eyes, the lab tech white-faced, the wolf ignoring them both as his mate writhes and changes on the cold floor. 

Sherlock’s pained noises fall silent, abruptly and all at once, the wolf’s howl dying with it. The lab is silent, save for the harsh breathing of the dark form curled on the floor, and the wolf’s nails clicking against the tiles as he shifts his weight. 

Where Sherlock once lay, curled in on himself and shuddering, something huge and dark resides. 

Stepping forward, the wolf voices a soft, questioning whine. Silence meets his query, and he moves closer. The shape moves and the wolf freezes as a large, shaggy head rises. Ears flicking back then forward, his mate turns to look at him over a furred shoulder. Though the face is that of a massive, dark-furred timber wolf, the eyes are pale and silvered in the dim light, familiarly sharp. 

“Jesus,” breathes the lab tech, drawing the attention of both wolves. Sherlock’s ears twitch, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth with a high-pitched yelp. The noise seems to take him by surprise, body jolting.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft rises to his feet, moving toward the cage. “Do you recognize me?” 

The timber wolf stares at him. Parting its jaws, he barks again, the sound fading into an irritated growl. Shaggy head shaking back and forth, Sherlock rises to his feet with clumsy movements. His paws slip on the floor, and he stumbles, yipping angrily until the other wolf sidles up to his side, leaning into him. Sherlock’s larger size almost dwarfs the sandy-furred wolf, at least a foot taller at the shoulder and two feet longer from snout to tail. Despite his size, he is slender, lithe where John’s wolf is muscled, long-legged where John is filled out and powerful. 

Sides pressed together, the two of them are a formidable sight. Sherlock’s dark brown-and-black coat disappears into the dark like an illusion. John is a blaze of rusty, sandy colour next to him. Despite the size difference between them, John is the obvious Alpha, eyes burning with fierce instinct, holding Sherlock’s weight with confident ease. Scanning the room with a challenge in his posture, John's lips peel back at the human eyes focused on them before turning his attention back to the darker wolf. He breathes deeply at Sherlock’s neck, inhaling his scent. The change has healed the grievous injury to Sherlock’s limb. There is only a slight limp evident when the dark wolf paces toward the edge of the cage, John’s smaller form supporting him along the way. 

Standing at the bars, Mycroft looks down at them both, brows drawing together in a frown. “It seems you’ve finally lost your humanity, Sherlock, just as you’ve always hoped. Was it worth it?” 

Growling in reply, Sherlock settles back on his haunches. His jaws part, teeth bared in a sharp grin before his tongue lolls out to drip saliva on the tiled floor. He shakes out his dark fur, stretches his back, and curls into a tight ball, nudging at the smaller wolf until he, too, folds to the floor. A yin and yang tangle of dark and light, both wolves stare up at Mycroft from their coil. 

Mouth turned down at the corners, Mycroft sighs. “Fine. You win.” Spinning on his heel, he leaves the wolves behind.

Curled together, Sherlock’s tail twitches with satisfaction as he noses into John’s ruff and grooms his ears with a clumsy tongue.


	23. Chapter 23

Opening his eyes, the wolf discovers three things. 

First, Sherlock is once more human, sitting up with a thin hospital gown covering his nudity. Draped across his abdomen, his injured arm is once more whole, the only sign of the ravaging bite a gnarled, wicked scar set deep into the pink, puckered skin. He holds it somewhat gingerly, taking care not to jar it against the bars of the cage, likely still sensitive. 

Second, Sherlock is awake and talking to someone. His fingers card through the wolf’s tangled fur where he lies on his side on the cold ground, but his attention is on a man standing outside the cage. The stranger’s posture is rigid, feet together, spine painfully straight. Something about the man’s attitude nearly triggers a half-memory for the wolf, but he doesn’t pursue the errant thought. It belongs to that other mind, the one that has been quieter as of late, less involved in the wolf’s actions and thinking.

And, third, he realizes that the edges of his vision are red, bordering on grey. Everything is visible as if through a tunnel. It should feel alarming, but he only feels disoriented, choosing instead to focus on Sherlock’s fingers as they work through his fur. 

Feeling heavy, weighed down by exhaustion despite sleeping for hours, the wolf snuffles his snout against the tiled floor and listens to the conversation. Dimly, he realizes Mycroft is present, as well as four of the armed men who seem to perpetually follow in his wake. Two are stationed by the doors, the others hovering behind the man speaking to Sherlock as if keeping him from leaving. 

Tongue lolling out, the wolf listens to his mate speak, Sherlock’s voice a familiar, low rumble.

“I admit, Major Barrymore. I’m impressed that you were able to fool me.” His lips quirk, rueful. “A rarity.” 

The stranger, Major Barrymore, snorts. “Shocking. I’d have assumed your arrogance leads you into all sorts of ‘wrong’ directions.”

Sherlock’s face darkens. Feeling his irritation, the wolf grumbles, but it is a soft, half-hearted sound. Sherlock shoots him a concerned look, and the wolf kicks his paws weakly in response, watching the Major rock back on his heels, eyes narrowed. Frowning, Sherlock fists his hand in fur and clears his throat. 

“Why are you coming to us now?” Eyes sharp, he leans forward, looking Barrymore over. “What changed?”

“What makes you think something changed?” Barrymore challenges. Sherlock scoffs.

“Of course something changed.” He waves a hand, dismissive. “I could go into great detail of how I know, or you could save us all the time and just tell me why you’re here.” 

Major Barrymore’s lips quirk, brows drawing down. “I’d rather you tell me.” 

Sighing, Sherlock untangles his fingers from the wolf’s tangled fur, rising to his feet with unsteady balance. The wolf huffs but remains where he is, too lethargic to attempt standing. Sherlock glances at him with uncertainty before striding toward the bars. Long fingers wrapping around the cold metal, he squints at the Major through the gap.

“You reek of death and wolf,” he announces, without preamble. “Been to visit Henry Knight, have you?”

Major Barrymore stiffens, shock flitting across his face before he schools his expression back to something blank. “I see.” He glances at Mycroft, standing silently off to his left. “Your own brother is one of them, now, Mister Holmes? I don’t envy you.” 

Before Mycroft can respond, his face tight and tense, Sherlock speaks, his upper lip curling back in a sharp grin of understanding.

“You speak from experience, don’t you, Major?”

Barrymore frowns, eyes hardening. He doesn’t reply, and Sherlock rushes on.

“You knew about Henry Knight, even before he killed Frankland.” His eyes widen, glittering with realization. Spots of colour dance in his cheeks, his feverish excitement palpable. Still sprawled on the floor, the wolf voices a soft whine, shifting weakly on his side. Caught up in the moment of deduction, Sherlock doesn’t notice. 

Only Mycroft’s eyes flicker to the animal on the ground, a faint frown marring the skin between his eyebrows as Sherlock continues.

“You knew what he was. What Bob Frankland was doing.” Sherlock’s pupils dilate, his hands coming together in a soft clap. “Oh! Oh, yes. You knew _exactly_ what was going on in your labs, didn’t you, Major Barrymore?” He shakes his head, a rueful smile on his face. “You _are_ clever, aren’t you? Fair enough that you judged me for missing it at first.” 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is low, not enough to stop Sherlock from steamrolling onward. And he does, failing to notice how his brother observes the wolf on the ground, who has begun to pant, sides heaving. Barrymore watches Sherlock’s face as if hypnotized.

“You told Mycroft that you don’t envy him for my becoming infected. The way you said it...your facial expression, it spoke of something personal. Private. Close to you.” Hands pressed together, Sherlock taps the tips of his fingers against his lips. “An odd reaction, wouldn’t you say? Unless there was more to your involvement with Henry Knight.” His eyes flash, smug, knowing. “Not an only child, were you, Barrymore?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s second attempt at interruption is ignored, Sherlock forging on, words falling fast and loud from his lips.

“You had the same mother, right? Can’t be the same father, otherwise you’d have it, too. Lycanthropy. That’s how it works, right? The hereditary gene? It’s passed through the father, on the y-chromosome. In women, it would be masked, a condition as rare as hemophilia.” His eyes are bright, frenetic, voice climbing. Curled up on the floor, the wolf whines. Mycroft moves closer to the cage, Sherlock failing to notice either of them. 

_“Sherlock.”_

The wolf feels strange. Disconnected and outside his body. Sherlock’s voice seems to come from far off, overriding Mycroft’s softer tone.

“So he was your half-brother. You were involved with the experiments. So tell me, then, Major,” Sherlock’s grin is as sharp as his angular face, teeth gleaming in the lab's artificial lighting. “What brings you here?”

His face pale, empty of colour, the Major opens his mouth to respond, but the wolf on the floor voices a loud, broken howl before curling in on himself. The seizure occurs like the tide, tremours rippling out in waves, limbs shifting against the floor, timed with frothy whines. 

Falling to his knees, the frantic light dying in his eyes, Sherlock leans over the wolf, his hands hovering just above a heaving side, scared to touch.

“John.” His voice is wavering, edged with panic. “John!” Wild, shuddering himself when his own stress urges his body toward a change, Sherlock turns wide eyes first to Major Barrymore, then to his brother. “Why haven’t you figured it out yet? Are you really going to just let him die?” His words are vicious, desperate, spat from teeth that seem to grow and lengthen in his mouth. “Help him!”

“Sherlock, calm yourself.” Professional, severe, Mycroft moves closer, peering through the bars at the seizing wolf on the floor. “If you don’t, you’ll change. You’re still not fully stable.”

“Fuck your calm,” Sherlock snaps, goosebumps rising over his skin, a precursor to the emergence of fur that he barely manages to hold back. He turns his furious stare to Major Barrymore, eyes flashing with a brief shade of wolfish-yellow. “Why are you here? Tell me why you’re here!”

Blinking, brow furrowed, Barrymore swallows and nods. Even in his state, the wolf’s sharp hearing picks up the click of his throat, the halting cadence of his breathing when he finally speaks. 

“The antiviral.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _touch me, yeah  
>  I want you to touch me there  
> make me feel like I am breathing  
> feel like I am human_
> 
> **A Little Death - The Neighbourhood**

He jolts upright, heart hammering in his chest, breath caught in his throat around the shape of a scream. 

“Shh, John.” Hands settle on his shoulders, gentle but insistent, guiding him back down to the thin padding of a mattress. It reminds him of Afghanistan, sleeping in oven-hot desert air, sweat pouring from his pores. His skin is as slick now as it was then, but he is cold, shivering with the aftermath of a broken fever. Blinking his eyes against the dark, he makes out a face above his own, sharp angles and pale eyes. 

“Sherlock.” His voice is a croak, rough with disuse. When he clears his throat, lifting a hand, his fingers brush his chin and he nearly lurches upward again. Sherlock’s grip on his shoulders keeps him in place, careful force that sets him to shivering, sweat leaching from his skin. “I’m— I’m—” Words fail him, shaking his head, staring at Sherlock as his hands clench helplessly. 

Sherlock’s grin is visible in the dark, a flash of teeth. “Welcome back, John.” His face flickers, tensing before relaxing, lids dropping over a suddenly vulnerable expression. “I missed you,” he breathes, like it’s a secret caught between the two of them, borderline shameful. 

John blinks, tries for words but finds his brain too sluggish to piece together a proper response. Studying his face, eyes intent, Sherlock recognizes his silence for what it is and descends on him. Their mouths meet, Sherlock’s lips hungry against his, moving over his face, brushing lightly over a cheekbone, across John’s temple, down to his jawline before returning to his mouth. Sherlock’s bites into John’s bottom lip, teeth clicking together, his tongue licking past the seam. 

Despite the torpid listlessness of his body, John forces his arms up and around Sherlock’s middle. His hands cradle against the rough jut of shoulder blades, the hard ridge of vertebra, Sherlock skinnier than he remembers but still achingly familiar. 

Sherlock makes a sound as their bodies slide together, the contact revealing the fact that the only thing keeping them from being skin-on-skin is the thin fabric of hospital gowns. Desperate, grateful, Sherlock moans his gratitude against John’s throat, growing hard and pressing into the curve of John’s thigh. John strokes a hand down his spine, but his own body is slower to respond, exhaustion flooding through him with even the simple movement of stroking Sherlock’s back.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, lips soft against the underside of the other man’s jaw. “Love.” Picking up on John’s fatigued tone, Sherlock falls still, letting his weight lower onto John as he presses his face into his neck.

In the silence that follows, John listens to their breathing, to the merged cadence of their inhales and exhales. His fingers—and, oh, how amazing it is to have hands, he’ll never take them for granted again—stroke slow patterns over Sherlock’s shoulder, slipping beneath the loose neckline of the gown. 

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”

******

He doesn’t remember most of what Sherlock tells him. His last memory is of pain, his vision blurring, doubling, shifting into dark before the rest fades away. 

“It was close,” Sherlock says, without elaborating, the rough edge of his voice providing a deeper explanation than his spoken words. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for four days.”

The virus had advanced. Finished attacking his nervous system, it had begun to work on John’s brain, erasing his humanity. Old and mutated, the virus was doing more than disarming him, it was eating away at the parts that made him whole.

It was a death sentence. 

“Barrymore knew Henry was his brother,” Sherlock murmurs. Curled against John’s side, the two of them pressed tightly together on the narrow cot in a hospital-like room, he cradles John’s hands in his, tracing the lifelines of his palms with slow fingers. “Not at first, but once Frankland began his experiments, it was only a matter of time before the Major discovered what was going on.” His lips quirk, face shadowed in the dark. “He’s no idiot, the Major. I’ll give him that.”

It’s a rare compliment, John hiding his tired smile in Sherlock’s sweat-damp curls. 

“It’s true, then,” he says, voice rough and soft, “Frankland was trying to cure Henry.” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. What Mycroft didn’t know was that he didn’t just try, he _did_.” At John’s confused noise, soft in his throat, Sherlock adjusts his position, sliding a leg over and between John’s. He wiggles, shifting until comfortable again before continuing. “He was part of some of the original trials. The samples I was left to work with were old, denatured. Frankland had much the same, but with the knowledge of what could work.” Sitting up, he props himself on one elbow, looking down into John’s face, his curls a dark halo around his head. “Before the original trials were forced to shut down, there had been some successes. But the research was stopped, and the werewolves were destroyed. The results were covered up, to keep others from trying again.” Reaching out, finger tracing lightly over John’s bottom lip, Sherlock studies his face with a strange look in his eyes. “Frankland picked up where he had left off.”

“And Henry?” John breathes, the question warm against Sherlock’s fingertip. “You said Frankland cured him.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. However, the results weren’t quite what he’d hoped.” His brow furrows, expression indecipherable. “It stopped the virus, but the damage was done. With the split between his humanity and the wolf, Henry was no longer able to control the wolf. He could no longer change at will.”

Frowning, John catches Sherlock’s wandering hand in his, squeezing gently as he turns the words over in his head. “But Frankland’s body. It was savaged.”

“Yes.” Swallowing, Sherlock folds his fingers between John’s. “He still changed at the full moon, just as you are forced to. But, without that mind connection between man and wolf, it seemed his madness remained. He killed Frankland when the man came across him after Henry had disappeared into the moors several months prior.” His eyes darken, teeth pressing into his bottom lip. “They thought he must have run off to die, that the treatment had failed.” 

“But it didn’t.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock stares at him in the darkened room. “Not entirely.” 

In the following silence, John can hear Sherlock’s heart beating, smell his uncertainty. With Sherlock’s changed physiology, John imagines he can hear his as well.

“What does it mean, then? What…” he pauses, searching for the words. “What am I?”

“You’re you,” Sherlock says simply as if that sums up the whole of it. John’s hands tighten, Sherlock’s fingers gripping around his with matching force. 

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sighs. His eyes dart away, breaking contact between them. Resisting the urge to grip his chin and turn him back, John waits, watching his face. Finally, Sherlock meets his eyes again, gaze flickering over John’s features. 

“You seem to have been spared the madness, but it is likely you won’t be able to control the change anymore. I... can't be certain, of course, but it seems probable.” His brow furrows, watching John intently. “Can you feel it?” 

John doesn’t have to ask for clarification. ‘It’ is the wolf, it can be nothing else. Closing his eyes, he searches. 

There is nothing in his head but his own thoughts and a mixture of both relief and disappointment. 

Eyelids fluttering open, he shakes his head. “Nothing,” he admits, and Sherlock’s lips press hard together. John tries to deflect that intense focus away from himself, asking, “You?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s still early.” 

Nodding, John lets his head roll back, the scratchy material of the pillowcase rough against his cheek. “Still early,” he repeats. 

Sherlock makes a noise of agreement and settles against him again, face pressed into the hollow of John’s throat. 

Lying in the dark together, John can still hear Sherlock’s heartbeat, just as he can feel it against his chest, a mirrored echo of his own.


	25. epilogue

_Four Months Later_

  
  


“Fuck!” 

John’s head falls back against the pillow, hair plastered to his skull by the sweat running down his face, slick and salty, tracing a path down the tendons standing out in his neck. Stradling John’s hips, bent forward with hands braced on John’s heaving chest, Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter as he moves in time with John’s sloppy, desperate thrusts. 

“John,” he pants, nails dragging red lines over skin. John slams up into him, making Sherlock’s eyes roll back into his head with a broken whine of, “Oh, _yes_ , John!” 

With a grunt, hands locked on Sherlock’s waist, John bucks upward and curses again, the word dying off in a strangled shout as he shudders through his orgasm. As if their bodies are merged into one, his climax triggers the same in Sherlock, the other man clenching and riding out his pleasure. Head thrown back, hair in damp, curled tangles on his forehead, Sherlock's chest, neck and face flush with arousal. His cum paints John’s stomach, narrowly misses spattering his chin before he collapses, limp and boneless, on top of John.

“Oh god,” he breathes out, his voice a brittle wheeze as he struggles for air. “That was… that… was…” Sherlock waves a hand, conceding to the incoherency of his post-coital haze. 

Smug, John nuzzles at the damp skin beneath Sherlock’s ear, the answering soft groan music to his ears when he drags his tongue over flesh. “That full moon sex,” he hums, tasting salt and sweat. “It’s good stuff.” 

Sherlock’s only response is a lazy sigh, sprawled sloppily over John and the tangled sheets. 

Remaining that way for some time, slipping in and out of a doze, too keyed up by the impending change and moonrise to truly rest, John finally nudges at his shoulder. Sherlock stirs, eyes flashing open, pale and silvered. 

“Up,” John orders, shoving the loose tangle of limbs that is his partner onto the mattress. “We have to meet with your brother before we go to the estate.” 

Rising to his feet, slipping off the bed as if boneless, Sherlock stretches languidly. The light paints gold down his pale skin, a sight John enjoys with hungry eyes. As sated as he is, his cock gives a half-hearted twitch. The movement catches Sherlock’s eye, the detective’s gaze dropping to John’s lap, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. When he moves as if to climb back on top of John’s stretched-out body, John growls and aims a sharp smack to Sherlock’s bare arse. 

“Get.” Sherlock doesn’t move, prompting another low growl from John. “I said, _go.”_

“Or what?” Sherlock replies, bold, challenging. John’s teeth flash in a snarl, the threat dissolving into a grin when Sherlock unintentionally steps back before scowling at John’s chuckle. 

Huffing, Sherlock goes, muttering his complaints all the while, dragging his limber body toward the bathroom. Left behind, John listens to the sound of water hitting the bottom of the shower. He pulls a face at the sticky mess Sherlock left on his chest and stomach. No doubt, Sherlock is currently washing a similar mess from his own body. At the mental image, John growls and lunges out of bed, padding across the room to join him in the shower. 

******

Mycroft’s office reminds John of the lab, a time he remembers in flashes of incomplete images and hazy memories. Walking through the cold, stark hallways makes him shiver, Sherlock drawing closer at his side, swaying near as if pulled by some invisible thread. The warmth of his body is an automatic comfort, and their footsteps fall into sync. 

Even with the disconnection between John and his wolf, he and Sherlock are closer than ever. Lore and research cite the concept of ‘pair bonding,’ the fact of them both being lycanthropes likely increasing an already strong relationship. Whatever the reasoning, John is merely grateful for the existence of their connection. He was always a lonely man, Sherlock the same. The feeling of companionship fills an empty space within him that he has been trying to erase for much of his life, with little success.

And the sex is pretty fantastic, too.

John shakes his head, schooling his thoughts as they reach the door to Mycroft’s office. The hair rises on the back of his neck, eyes shifting instinctively to Sherlock. Already looking back at him, the detective raises an inquiring eyebrow, and John nods before Sherlock pushes through the door, leading the way into the cold, stark office.

“Mycroft,” he says by way of greeting, his brother looking up from the papers on his desk to watch them enter. He nods, eyes moving over Sherlock before shifting to John, searching. He doesn’t speak until John settles in a chair, Sherlock hovering at his shoulder, too amped up to sit. Ever since the split in his mind, John no longer experiences the same instant, direct feedback from his own wolf. Still, as with before, in bed, he feels the presence of the oncoming full moon like a voice in the back of his head. 

“John, how are you?” Mycroft’s voice is casual, but he picks up on the cautious tone beneath, senses heightened further by the impending change.

“Better,” he replies, clearing his throat. He shares a look with Sherlock, unspoken communication flashing between them before he turns back to the man across from them. “Stronger.”

Mycroft nods. “Wonderful. Happy to hear it.” Straightening in his chair, he shuffles the papers on his desk, suddenly brisk and business-like. “I’m sure it’s no mystery why I asked you here.”

His hands settling on John’s shoulders, the touch almost unconscious, Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Baskerville.” 

Mycroft nods again. “Yes. We’ve finished our inquiry.” 

Sherlock’s brows drop. “And?” Mycroft flashes his brother a sharp look but doesn’t comment on the impatience. 

“And you were right.” He pauses, frowning briefly before his face clears as if the words physically pain him. John can feel the smugness radiating from Sherlock. It’s in the way his fingers tighten on John’s shoulder, the slight uptick in his breathing, the increased rate of his heartbeat. 

“Of course I was,” he replies, and John tilts his head back, nudging him gently in the stomach. Sherlock pats his shoulder absently, raising his brows, indicating for Mycroft to continue. 

He does so with slight reluctance, mouth curling downward at the corners. “They were, indeed, more involved with Frankland and Barrymore’s work than was initially forthcoming.” His brow furrows, eyes scanning the papers in front of him before returning to their faces. “Henry Knight was not the only subject of their experiments.”

Sherlock’s intake of breath behind him makes John inhale deeply in unconscious sympathy. 

“The black wolf.” 

“The black wolf,” Mycroft repeats, confirming.

“So, when you pulled us from the case…” Sherlock begins, voice trailing off, leaving space for his brother to fill in the blanks. To his credit, Mycroft almost looks sheepish. 

“I wasn’t entirely aware of what exactly was happening, but I had my suspicions. We were already looking into some reports of strange animal attacks. While I didn’t anticipate werewolves, we were beginning to wonder if Baskerville might not need some looking into.” His face clears, lips thinning. “Unsurprisingly, leaving a high-level clearance military base that specializes in experimental warfare unchecked is unwise.”

Sherlock’s fingers twitch on his shoulders. John can easily imagine the smirk on his face and works to keep his own expression neutral, politely interested. 

Mycroft frowns, hardly fooled.

“The HOUND project had been reinstated, without proper authority. It seems Baskerville believed themselves above such directives.” His words are tightly controlled. “Barrymore has been removed from his position and detained, pending further investigation and charges of his involvement and leadership.” 

“And the werewolves?” 

John’s voice takes both brothers by surprise, Sherlock’s breathing halting before whooshing out, rustling the hair on the top of John’s head. Mycroft’s expression shifts toward discomfort. 

“What makes you think there were any subjects left?” His voice is casual, face carefully blank, but John catches a flicker of something in his eyes.

“Let’s call it...instinct,” John replies, staring at him. “That black wolf was a loner, but I know what I smelled.” His lips part, tongue darting out to wet the dry flesh at the scent-memory from the moors. “It wasn’t alone.”

“Henry Knight—” Mycroft begins before Sherlock cuts him off, his voice sharp.

“He wasn’t the only other wolf there, was he?”

Mycroft’s face darkens. Lips pressed hard together, he refuses to answer. 

_“Mycroft.”_

“No, Sherlock. John.” Mycroft’s hard eyes flick over both of them. “Baskerville is no longer your concern. The only reason you two still stand before me is due to an immense amount of favours I called in. And,” his gaze settles on Sherlock, burning into his challenging stare, “because you are my brother. You may believe me a machine, incapable of caring for familial ties, but you two are living proof of the contrary.” He leans back, hands settled on the top of his desk. “If you wish to keep yourself and John within my good graces, you will forget about Baskerville.”

By the way Sherlock’s hands twitch on his shoulders, John can tell he doesn’t want to concede. Hearing his inhale, certainly a precursor to a sharp-tongued retort, John covers one of his hands with his own.

“Right,” he says. “Thank you.” Squeezing Sherlock’s fingers, John rises to his feet. “It’s nearing moonrise.”

Gratitude flickers over Mycroft’s face, there and gone before he, too, is standing. “Yes, that’s right.” Pulling out his phone, he sends a message, looking back up at them. “A car is waiting outside to take you to the estate grounds. Please don’t dally.” His eyes lock with Sherlock’s. “Now is not the time for mistakes.”

“Sure,” John replies quickly. He slips an arm through Sherlock’s, steering him toward the door as the detective silently glares at his brother. “Thanks again.”

“Certainly, John.” 

******

Moonrise isn’t far off. John can feel it like a breath against the nape of his neck, a tingling down his spine. In the back of the black sedan, Sherlock fidgets at his side, fingernails catching in the fabric of his jumper as he stares out the window. Barely able to contain his own restless energy, John reaches over and grips one of his twitching hands, squeezing tightly until Sherlock falls still with a huff. The fidgeting returns shortly, impossible to control this close to the change. 

“It’s not right,” Sherlock says suddenly, breaking the silence. His upper lip twitches, fighting the apparent urge to curl back over his teeth. John strokes a finger over the back of his hand. 

“It’s not,” he agrees. “You’re right. But, for now, I think we should listen to Mycroft.”

Sherlock shoots him a sharp look. Looking back at him, John tilts his head, chin jutting upward. Even in his human body, the challenge is evident. Sherlock glares for a few seconds longer before submitting, ducking his head slightly to show his reluctant assent.

Leaning over, John presses his face to the curve of his neck, lips brushing warm skin. “I know it’s not what you want to hear,” he murmurs, feeling Sherlock shiver as his words breathe over the side of his jaw. “But it’s what we have to do. For now.” He leans back just enough to look Sherlock in the eyes, hand sliding up to his arm, fingers curling around his bicep with a firm squeeze. “Just for now.”

Staring back at him, Sherlock nods, his eyes wide and dark. The sight makes John smile, and he gives in to the urge to mark, to leave his scent on his mate. The drag of his tongue over Sherlock’s neck makes the other man shiver, voicing a very soft, needy moan at the sensation.

“I love you,” John breathes, and Sherlock's breathing catches in response. Growling, John nuzzles into warm, familiar skin one last time before leaning away as their destination comes into view through the darkened windows. 

The car pulls up to the tall iron gates of an old estate building, idling at the curb. This far outside of London, the city lights fade into the distance, the scenery semi-dark with dusk. Wind whistles through the trees, turned skeletal with the change of the season. 

After John recovered enough to return to Baker Street, his new reality had presented a unique issue. When he found himself unable to change at will, he and Sherlock had been wary of other possible impacts of the virus on his physiology. 

The first full moon after his recovery, they’d had their answer. The change had ripped through him with new violence, painful where it had previously been only uncomfortable. When his eyes had flashed open, no longer human, John discovered he could no longer control the wolf. Unlike before, they didn't share a mind but had split in two. After finding himself a passenger in a body he once commanded, able to see but not control, John had fallen into a panic.

They had spent that night with Sherlock pinning John to the ground, backing him into a corner of the flat to keep him from racing out into the night, more wolf than human. Only Sherlock’s larger size had made this possible, John proving hard to contain with his stronger, more powerful build. Even so, they both woke with freshly healed bite and scratch marks, the skin of Sherlock’s back and stomach scored red by John’s nails and teeth for daring to defy his Alpha. 

After that night, they knew something had to be done. Thanks to Mycroft’s meddling, they received the deed to an old, long-time abandoned estate property in the country. The building itself was rundown, nearly uninhabitable, the yard long since left to ruin. For a human home, it was a mess, an absolute nightmare of renovations and safety hazards. For two wolves, one too dangerous to remain inside London every full moon, it was perfect. 

Driven by one of Mycroft’s assistants, they spent the last two full moons there. Mycroft’s man took care to leave food and water before he left, always returning late the next day to retrieve them.

In this way, they are safe. 

Slipping out of the car, John senses rather than hears Sherlock behind him, hot on his heels. As they look up at the gates, the driver steps out of the car. Without speaking, he unlocks the heavy locks. He nods to them both, says, “I will be back in the morning,” and steps back. 

“Thanks,” John offers. Sherlock is already passing through the gates, moving at an eager, quick pace onto the property. The driver nods again, waiting for John to slip through behind him. They clang shut at his back, the sound of the locks turning never failing to send a shiver up his spine. Sucking in a breath, eyes flickering shut, John reminds himself that it’s as much for their safety as it is for anyone else. 

The sun is setting, sky darkening above the horizon. Ahead of him, Sherlock is climbing the steps of the empty manor, already wrestling with his clothing. Taking a moment to watch him divest himself of jumper and trousers, revealing creamy skin, his pants hastily tossed away, John begins disrobing. He starts with his jeans, folding them neatly on the steps before moving to his shirt. 

Between sliding it over his head and regaining his vision, the clouds part above, the moon shining through. With the scenery silvered, John finishes undressing, kicking his boots off as a shiver ripples over his skin. A few feet away, Sherlock is watching him expectantly, already kneeling, his body shuddering as his jaw begins to stretch and lengthen. Just before John’s vision fails, Sherlock’s middle folds and expands, the rest of his shift lost as John groans and falls to his knees.

His new change is a stark contrast to those that came before. It feels like handing his body off to someone else, a passing of control over which John has no power. The first time, it terrified him. With several moon cycles behind him since recovering, he feels a strange kind of comfort when the wolf in his head comes to the surface, pushing its way to the front. 

Sherlock lets out a loud gasp, making the hair rise on the nape of John’s neck before fur bursts out over his skin. His ears shift and reshape themselves, hearing disappearing for precious seconds, leaving him helpless and vulnerable.

Before John fades into the back of his own head, a passenger in his body, he and the wolf pause, feel one another out. 

_Take care of him_ , he thinks, as Sherlock rises shakily on four legs, still unsteady in his other form. 

Flicking an ear, the wolf parts its jaws, tongue lolling, thinking back to him, _Mate. Safety._

_Pack_

The moon paints the abandoned, fenced-in estate house in flashes of silver between the clouds. Two wolves, one lithe and dark, the other muscled and compact, with a coat the colour of desert sands, run together through an overgrown yard gone to seed. Side-by-side, they dart around gnarled trees, through tall grass and over the uneven ground. 

When John’s wolf halts, snout lifting toward the sky, his howl is long, haunting, the sound of solitary isolation until Sherlock’s cry rises with his. The harmonies merge into a synchronous serenade to the full moon, a combining of stories. 

The song of a pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the final chapter! This fic has been quite an adventure, and it really ran away from me. So thank you to those of you who stuck through some rather messy writing. I'm glad we got there in the end. 
> 
> There could be some sequel fics, but I say that about all my fics, so don't hold me to that.
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to know what our wolf boys look like, here's some images.
> 
> **Sherlock:**   
>    
> 
> 
> **John:**   
>    
> 
> 
> **The black wolf:**   
>    
> 


End file.
